Fly Away Home
by bethamphetamine
Summary: A sequel to The Phoenix. Spike and Lynda head stateside on Lynda's first holiday since Cornwall in Fourth Year. Can she let Kenny and the gang handle everything in her absence, and how will she handle everything the USA has to offer?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"Let me see the ring. Oh, Lynda, it's beautiful. Did Spike really pick it out himself?" asked Sarah, admiring the sparkling solitaire on her friend's left hand. They had both managed to get an hour spare and were taking the rare opportunity to catch up for lunch in a bustling café.

"He did," replied the engaged Lynda. "Of course, it could be cut glass and polished tin for all I know about jewellery but I trust his judgement about style over mine!"

Sarah sat back and sighed. "Well, you'll be pleased to know, I'm green with envy."

"Good," replied Lynda smugly. "Consider us even for snogging Spike in the newsroom before he went back to America the first time."

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Come on, Lynda, you're not still sore about that, are you? You know damn well he was only using me to get at you."

"You certainly seemed to enjoy it," replied Lynda, archly.

Sarah laughed guiltily. "Well . . . I must admit, even though I knew at the time he was using me, I thought I might as well enjoy the moment!"

"Right," said Lynda. "So what about now? Snogging anyone else's boyfriends?"

Sarah blushed again. "Err, not exactly."

"What do you mean, not exactly?" Lynda stared hard at her friend. "Come on, Sarah. Tell me. What's his name?"

Sarah sighed. "Mandy."

"Mandy?" repeated Lynda, confused. "Bit of a girly name, isn't it?"

"It is a girl," replied Sarah, blushing furiously and looking intently down into her cup of coffee.

Lynda banged her spoon down.

"Sarah Jackson, are you trying to tell me you're a lesbian?"

"Not really. Well, I'm not sure. I still like men, although God knows why. But Mandy . . . well, she was in my study group and, I don't know, we went out for a drink, we talked, we . . . clicked!"

"I see!" Lynda raised her eyebrows.

"Lynda, I hope this doesn't change anything between us as friends," said Sarah anxiously.

"Why on earth would it?" replied Lynda. "I am many things, Sarah, some of them bad, but homophobic is not one of them. In fact, I'm happy for you. At least you don't have to worry about stupid men anymore!"

"Well, I'm not writing them off entirely," admitted Sarah.

"I bet your parents were thrilled to hear that!" said Lynda. Sarah hung her head again. "You have told them, haven't you?"

"Not exactly," replied Sarah, again. They looked at each other and laughed.

"Anyway, Sarah, I was thinking, there's something different about you. Something else, I mean! I just can't place it. Have you changed your hair?"

Sarah looked puzzled for a second. "Oh! I got the wart removed."

"Wart?"

"You know. The wart I had. On my nose," Sarah pointed to a small scar near her nostril.

"You had a wart?" asked Lynda.

"I don't know if I should feel insulted or grateful that you never noticed. Barry Crowther and his friends called me Wartnose for two years! Don't you remember?"

"I'm sorry. I can honestly say I don't," replied Lynda.

"I shouldn't be surprised," continued Sarah. "After all, it took you six months to notice my hair when I cut it all off!"

"I'll make it my New Year's resolution to be more observant," promised Lynda.

There was a pause in conversation before Lynda spoke again. "Did you ever fancy me?"

"Lynda!"

"What? It's a fair enough question, isn't it? Come on, Sarah. Did you ever fancy me?"

"Definitely not," replied Sarah emphatically. Lynda looked hurt.

"Really? Why not?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Kenny wondered if he wasn't possibly the World's Happiest Man.

After spontaneously ending up back home after chasing his destiny (aka Kelly) from Australia to the UK, he had settled in well at his "temporary" position of Assistant Editor at The Phoenix. Everyone had welcomed him back with open arms, even if Colin did seem to think he had been in Wales all this time.

He was also enjoying the fact he had his own office. Sitting opposite Lynda, he decided, was bad for the health in the way that having a desk perched on Mount St Helens might have been. On the plus side, he could have volunteered for any community response team, having become adept at extinguishing spot fires and counselling the traumatised.

"Kenny!" Think of the devil. The new phone system was the latest in high-tech communications, but the intercom system had its drawbacks. Especially since Lynda had learned how to use it.

"Yeah, Boss?"

"The front page for the first edition. They're doing the shoot now, are you ready?"

"Coming," Kenny checked his reflection in his computer monitor and joined Lynda on the way to the photography studio.

"I've never been front page news before," he commented.

"Nothing to it, Kenny," said the American voice behind him, slapping him on the back. "Although there will be hordes of women to fight off. I hope you realised that when you agreed to do this."

"You mean the ones who want you to sign their walking frames?" Lynda asked, sweetly. Spike rolled his eyes and continued talking to Kenny, unabashed.

"They'll come up, pretend they recognise you from somewhere. Then they'll say something along the lines of . . ." he adopted a breathless falsetto ". . . omigoditsyouuuuuu!"

"Omigoditsyouuuu!" repeated Kenny in the same high-pitched voice, grinning. "Right. Think I've got it."

"Spike's certainly no stranger to that particular phrase," said Lynda. "Although usually it's followed by something like 'Weren't you the one at the school dance who . .'"

"Now, now, Lynda," admonished Spike, wagging his finger at her. "That was a long time ago, before Mr Sullivan steered me onto the path of righteousness and the Junior Gazette."

Lynda snorted. "Spike, you did exactly the same thing at the last Christmas party!"

"Not exactly the same," corrected Spike. "I had different underwear. I'm sure of it!"

Julie met them at the door of the studio. "Come in, guys. They're just setting up."

Lynda looked at the set. "This is my office!"

"Thought you'd like it!" grinned Julie. "We wanted to go for a natural, realistic setting."

"Then why didn't we just do it in my office?" asked Lynda.

"I'm always up for that!" smirked Spike, nudging Kenny who made a "too much information" face.

"Not that real," replied Julie dryly. "Anyway, you haven't met our new photographer yet, have you?"

The group shook their heads as Julie pulled up a tall, freckled guy with dark hair and a multitude of facial piercings.

"Hey, Danny!" exclaimed Spike, shaking his hand. "Good to see you, man!"

"All right, Spike?" replied Danny laconically. "Kenny, Lynda, nice to see yer."

"And you," replied Kenny, when his turn for the handshake came around.

Lynda looked blank.

"Come on, Lynda. Think way way back to the early days of the Junior Gazette," prompted Kenny. Lynda screwed up her face.

"I thought that was Kevin?"

"Kevin was blonde," said Kenny wearily. "And gay. He had the affair with the guy from Features, remember?"

"Well, who was the one that ran away after that whole Gaz debacle?"

"That would be me," grinned Danny, sheepishly. "I hope you've forgiven me by now, Lynda. I was made an offer I couldn't refuse, working in a studio in London."

"Er, sure," replied Lynda after a discreet nudge from Spike. "So, what are we doing then?"

"They'll just put some make-up on you so your features don't wash out with the lights," said Julie. "Don't panic if it looks a bit heavy. Colin's in the chair as we speak."

"Right. And you've been done already," said Lynda.

"No," replied Julie, frowning.

"Oh," said Lynda uncomfortably. "Well. You look very . . . ready."

After they had all had a turn in the make-up chair, they were arranged in various positions around the faux office until Danny was satisfied.

"This takes me back," said Danny happily, squinting through his viewfinder. "I took the very first staff photo at the Junior Gazette, and here we all are again. Okay everybody, smile and say 'Bollocks'!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Spike came over to Lynda's flat that evening on her insistence for a surprise.

Spike never knew whether to be excited, really excited or extremely wary about Lynda's surprises. Depending on her mood, it could be a change in his roster, a night of steamy and unbridled passion or a kick to a very sensitive part of his anatomy. Spike fervently hoped it wasn't the latter this time, and mentally catalogued all of his recent behaviour on the way over.

Riding up to her gate, he killed the Yamaha's engine, hopped off the bike and chained it to the fence. Pulling off his helmet, he checked his reflection in the bike mirrors.

"Helmet head. What can you do?" he said to himself, ruffling up his hair into a more presentable fashion. He had attempted a faux-hawk at one stage and Lynda had teased him and called him metrosexual until it grew out. His future wife had no appreciation of style!

When satisfied with his reflection, he made his way to the front door and gave it a jaunty knock, which belied his underlying nerves about the possibly painful nature of the surprise.

Lynda smiled when she opened the door, a good sign. Though not necessarily always a telling one. Lynda had a killer fake smile.

"So. This surprise," said Spike as he entered the flat. "Am I going to need medical attention afterwards?"

"Spike, why do you always assume the worst? You're so negative!" Lynda pulled him by the hand and into the lounge where sat an expensive-looking new suitcase. "Sorry I didn't wrap it. Surprise!"

"Lynda!" Spike examined the case. "Wow!"

"Did I do good?" Lynda asked.

"You sure did," said Spike, opening up the zips and looking inside. "It must have cost you a fortune though. You shouldn't have."

"Well, I did. Twice!" Lynda pointed at a matching case resting by the wall.

Spike pulled up the handle and gave the suitcase an experimental roll across the carpet. "This sure beats my old gym bag."

"I know. I just wanted to say a little thank you for taking me to America," said Lynda, pleased.

"Here's your little you're welcome, then!" said Spike, drawing her in for a kiss. "But Lynda, I'm worried. This is an expensive brand. I want you to have plenty of spending money in the States. You think Sherrington's got plenty of dress shops!"

"Oh, I've got that covered," said Lynda dismissively, with a wave of her hand.

"How?" asked Spike.

"Swear box," grinned Lynda.

"I see! And you're sure that will cover everything?"

"Spike, remember that time Colin started charging for tea and coffee in the tea room?"

"Yeah?"

"Fifty pounds. Julie's idea for a 7 part article on the return of legwarmers? Twenty pounds. And Tiddler is making me put in a pound every time I call her Ti – Damn!"

"I get the idea," said Spike, chuckling. "Don't forget, we have a wedding to organise when we get back!"

"I haven't forgotten," said Lynda, ducking her head and twisting the ring on her finger. Spike looked at her closely.

"Lynda, you're not having second thoughts, are you?" he asked.

"Of course not. I'm fine!"

Spike gave her a look. "We've talked about this 'I'm Fine!' business. It's okay to say how you're really feeling."

Lynda sighed and then smiled. "I take a while to catch on, don't I? Look, it's okay, Spike. I do still want to marry you. I'm just nervous."

"Is that all?" laughed Spike, relief evident in his voice. "Well, I'm nervous too, you crazy woman. If you weren't a bit nervous, I'd be worried!"

"It's just – you know how I am with social situations," continued Lynda reluctantly.

"I know. I understand." A sudden thought struck Spike. A plan. Relatively simple yet so powerful in magnitude. He stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"What are you looking so suddenly devious about?" Lynda asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"No reason!" replied Spike craftily and resisted rubbing his hands together with glee.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The next morning, the Phoenix staff were crowded into the large conference room, chattering excitedly. The projector screen had been pulled down and Billy was fiddling importantly with PowerPoint using his headset and directing his offsider to manipulate the data projector.

"Right," he said, finally releasing the headset tube from his mouth.

"How are we going, Billy?" Lynda asked from the front of the room. "Ready to roll?"

"Lynda, what a heartless thing to say to someone in a wheelchair," Billy replied with his customary sledgehammer humour.

Lynda simply rolled her eyes as Billy did the same in his chair towards the back of the room, scattering some of the younger staff members who had been sitting on the floor.

"Okay, everyone. As you know, we're here to have a look at what the Graphics department have designed for the first edition. It's been a big learning curve for them, going into colour and using some of the computer programs but I'm reasonably pleased with the results, which I've learned by now, means they're actually fantastic."

Chuckles from the staff members not involved in the Graphics department.

"Okay. So let's just bring up the first one . . ." Lynda poked a button on the remote control. Nothing happened. "Oops. Wrong one." She pressed another. Again, nothing. "Damn! Hang on . . ." she stabbed the rest of the buttons randomly and finally, mashed the keypad with her palm. The projector screen shot up towards the ceiling with a bang, startling Frazz out of a semi-recumbent state and causing Colin to drop to the floor and curl into a protective ball.

"Er, Kenny," said Billy, after the laughter had died down, "Would you mind handing Lynda the controls for the PC. She's got the one for the projector screen."

"Certainly, Billy," replied Kenny with that Kennyish smile playing on his lips. "Now, Lynda – as I find often works with you - I've drawn a little . . ."

Lynda snatched the control from Kenny rudely and pressed the button marked with Kenny's famous yellow arrow.

A bold logo was projected onto the green feature wall. Without a word, Kenny picked up the projector remote and lowered it back down. When fully projected onto the white screen, the staff members gasped appreciatively. Even Julie, with her years in graphic design, was impressed.

"That is the coolest thing ever," declared Sophie.

"I would SO buy this magazine," added Laura.

"You will be," replied Lynda. "Our first edition has to rate through the roof so I want every person in every staff member's family to have a copy. I'll even sign them for you."

She clicked through the slideshow showing the mock-ups of the pages, allowing Simon from Graphics the opportunity to explain a little about lay-outs and the process involved in designing and creating.

Finally, they reached the back cover.

"That's the last one, I think . . ." she said, clicking again, "Oh, hang on, one more . . ."

The final slide was another mock-up of the Phoenix front cover, only this time it featured a bride and groom with Spike and Lynda's heads Photoshopped on. The caption read "SPYNDA: WEDDING OF THE YEAR!"

The staff erupted into a few minutes of raucous laughter before all eyes turned to Lynda for the fireworks explosion. Even more spectacular, Lynda was merely shaking her head ruefully.

"Oh dear. Wherever did this name amalgamation thing come from in journalism? Spynda! It sounds like some kind of special needs facility!"

Hesistant laughter in response – the staff didn't often hear Lynda making jokes and it was hard to tell sometimes whether it was a trick to put people off guard before the attack.

"Very funny, Spike, putting the graphics team up to this," she continued, with a fond look at her fiance.

Spike shook his head and looked genuinely bemused. "Not me, ma'am."

Lynda was puzzled. "Then, who . . ."

"If I may, Lynda . . ." Colin had stepped up and clasped his hands together in his most beguiling fashion. "Now, as we all know from experience – Spynda sells. It's got human interest practically engraved on it. You saw what it did for the old Jay Gee. So, I was thinking we go for something like this over the whole 'blah blah this is how it all began' thing." He turned to his audience. "I mean, Yawn City, right?"

"I like the start-up piece," mumbled Kenny, who had a big hand in writing it. "It's solid."

"So we need a real grabber, right?" continued Colin as though he hadn't spoken. (In fact, in Colin's world, he hadn't). "Something sensational to pump into their veins and hook 'em for life."

"Colin . . ." Spike began warningly. After all these years, Colin still couldn't pick up on the menacing tone and carried on blithely.

"Just one thing. As we're going to press – well, tonight – we need you to get married sort of now. Reverend?"

A man in clerical dress appeared at the doorway and was nearly bowled over by the young lady spouting extremely unreligious epithets as she marched out of the door.

"Stop her!" cried Colin. "That's the beautiful bride!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"Hello, dear!" Marion Day stood up from the café table she had been sitting at and kissed her only child.

"Hi Mum," Lynda flopped into the chair opposite, depositing her handbag and jacket with a flump.

"Something wrong, dear?"

"Of course not." Lynda looked around impatiently. "Where's the waitress? I'm dying of thirst."

"Be patient, Lynda," said her mother, for possibly the millionth time in her life. "Now. Tell me. How are plans for the wedding going?"

"Fine," replied Lynda. "If she was on my payroll, she'd be out."

"Who?"

"The waitress! Standing over there, chatting to people . . ."

"I think she's taking their order, dear."

"Well, why can't she take it a bit quicker?" Lynda muttered, conveniently forgetting her own brief yet spectacular stint as a waitress.

"Never mind that, we'll be served soon enough. Oh, Lynda, I'm so excited about the wedding. And your Dad is really looking forward to meeting Spike, I had a message from him on the computer mail today."

"Email, Mum!"

"No, I think it's Gmail, dear. You know, through Google. Your friend Billy set it up for us."

Lynda groaned. People who didn't move with the times were so frustrating.

"So tell me what you have planned!"

"Can't we talk about something else?" Lynda began twisting the ring on her finger.

"Oh, don't be silly, what else could there possibly be to talk about! My baby girl is getting married! And don't twist your ring like that, your fingers will smudge the diamond and make it all dull."

"Mum!"

"Now, I was thinking, St Margarets is where your Dad and I got married and I'm sure I could have a word with the vicar if you and Spike wanted to get married there. Then we could use the church hall for the reception and the Ladies Auxillary could do the catering, what do you think?"

"Mmm," was Lynda's response. Her mum chattered away regardless.

"Now, I don't know how many you're going to want to invite but it should be big enough. They've got a piano and room for dancing and the ladies can decorate the room beautifully."

"Mmm," said Lynda again, more forcefully.

"Has Spike got a best man yet? Who are you having as bridesmaids?"

"I don't know. Sarah, I guess," sighed Lynda.

"Well, you'll have to ask your cousin Anna as well – she asked you."

"I didn't go!" replied Lynda indignantly.

"I know you didn't. You might have given her more than an hour's notice though - she had to use your great aunt Mabel as a stand-in and the dress looked terrible on her!"

"The dress was salmon-coloured taffeta with puffy sleeves, it would have looked terrible on anyone," retorted Lynda. "Look, what could I do? I was sick, I couldn't very well walk down the aisle throwing up. Though at least then no-one would have been looking at the dress, not to mention those ridiculous shoes. Where can you even find salmon-coloured ballet shoes anyway?"

"Speaking of shoes, I saw some absolutely darling ones in the window of Shoo Biz in the High Street. I think you should go for a low heel as Spike's not the tallest of fellows. These were lovely, with little sparkly jewels all over them . . ."

"Look, Mum, we really just want something plain and simple without fuss," said Lynda, fervently hating the waitress for not interrupting what was turning into an extremely torturous afternoon tea.

"We can do simple," her mother replied. "Just as long as it's not too plain. I don't want people thinking we can't afford to give our daughter a decent wedding."

"Who cares what people think? It's our wedding, not theirs!" Please, couldn't the fat man in the corner suddenly collapse and draw her mum's attention away? Eat that éclair! Choke on it!

"Of course it is, dear. But like it or not, you're in the public eye now. People will take an interest in what you do."

"Hic!"

"Oh, Lynda – not again! I thought you were over that silly habit?"

"I've got to go," muttered Lynda, beginning to gather up her things.

"Sorry about the wait!" The waitress, damn her, had finally made an appearance and Lynda could swear she was smirking. "Ready to order?"

Sinking resolutely back into her chair, Lynda asked for a pot of tea. It was going to be a long afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

A blue van trundled to a stop in front of a 24-hour convenience store in the chilly greyness of pre-dawn Norbridge and out leapt a sprightly 60 year-old called Eric.

Whistling cheerfully, he threw open the doors of his van and hauled out bundles of newspapers and magazines. A figure huddled in a shop doorway nearby was startled out of a doze as they landed with a thwap! on the footpath. Eric noticed this and tutted to himself sadly. After carting the bundles into the store, he re-emerged with two steaming Styrofoam cups and approached the girl who was now wide awake and watching him alertly. Not one of those junkie ones, thought Eric gladly. He'd been on the receiving end of some very strange behaviour, especially around the council estates, and he was only ever trying to help.

"Here you go, lassie," said Eric kindly, handing over the steaming cup. "Bit nippy out here this morning. This will do you good."

"Oh! Err, no thank you, I couldn't possibly . . ." Lynda was mortified. Did she really look like a homeless person?

"Nonsense, of course you can," replied Eric cheerfully. "A good hot cup makes the day start a bit better, I always find!"

"Right, yes, I suppose so," mumbled Lynda, blushing furiously.

"No need to feel ashamed, lassie. We can't help what life throws at us sometimes. Haven't you got a better place to stay?" Eric asked.

"Ah, well, yes, I do, I'm just . . ." Lynda was cut off by the shrill ringing of her mobile, muffled under the thick blanket she was swaddled in. Eric eyed her curiously.

"Is that a mobile telephone?" he asked.

"No! It's err . . . my alarm clock," bluffed Lynda.

"Alarm clock?" repeated Eric suspiciously.

"Yes. So I can get up for work on time," replied Lynda.

"Work? Where do you work?"

"A magazine," replied Lynda and promptly cringed.

"And they don't pay you enough to live on? That's an outrage, that is!"

"They pay me okay," Lynda fumbled in her pocket and fished out a couple of pound coins which she pressed into Eric's hand. "Look, thanks for the coffee. I've got to go." With that, she rose, revealing a business suit under the blanket.

"You're not homeless!" said Eric indignantly.

"No, I'm not. It's errr . . . an undercover investigation. Seeing how people of Norbridge treat the homeless. You've done very well. Thank you." Turning away from Eric, she pulled the still ringing phone from her pocket. JULIE HOME was flashing on the caller ID. "Julie? What are you ringing at this hour for?"

"You're awake, aren't you?" came the sullen reply.

"What if I wasn't?" countered Lynda. A chesty cough came down the line in response.

"Lynda, you're doing what you do whenever we bring out a new look or a big story. You're camped in front of the 24-hour store on Bromley Road, waiting for them to deliver the new editions. Then you go in, see how it looks on the rack, bully that nice old Indian man if they're not in the best position, then you buy three copies, one for you, one for your Mum and one to send to your Dad."

"Lucky guess," muttered Lynda. "So why are you ringing if you know everything?"

Another hacking cough. "I'm sick. I can't cover the fashion show today and there's no-one else free. You'll have to do it."

"What?" asked Lynda incredulously. "Why not get Spike to do it? He knows more about fashion than I do. Let's face it, people in the Third World know more about fashion than I do."

"He was my first choice," replied Julie, "but he's interviewing a band this morning."

"Hang on, isn't this fashion show that major event you've been going on about since we started?" Lynda asked.

"Yes, it is. Thank you. It's you or we don't cover it at all, Lynda," wheezed Julie. "It starts at 11am. Try and dress . . ."

Whatever fashion tip Julie was recommending to Lynda was lost in a sneezing fit. Lynda sighed and snapped the phone shut. Brilliant. A fashion show to look forward to, full of loud music, flashing lights and vapid people waffling about clothes. What a shame Spike wasn't available, he would have loved it.

In the meantime, Lynda had work to do. Yanking open the door, she strode purposefully towards the periodicals, Mr Patel ducking for cover when he saw who had entered his store. There it was, favourably positioned in the middle of the Local Interest rack. The first edition of The Phoenix. Lynda permitted herself a satisfied smile before scooping up 3 copies.

The Phoenix office was abuzz when she returned, everyone had procured their own copies on their way to work that morning and were leafing through them excitedly. Lynda spent some time reading through hers in the relative sanctity of her office, fielding congratulatory phone calls including one from Mayor Swanson, with a shared joke about potential libel for a supermarket story.

Before she knew it, the morning had all but gone and it was time to head out to the fashion show, to be held in Butterworth's - Norbridge's most prestigious department store. Gathering up the information pack and invitation from Julie's office, she gave herself a fleeting glance in her fashion and beauty editor's full-length mirror. So her skirt was a little rumpled. Big deal. No-one would be looking at her anyway!

"Hey boss!" came the shout from the floor as she was heading out. She turned to see Spike roll out into the walkway on his chair.

"What is it, Spike?" she asked impatiently.

"Can you bring me back a model?" he asked cheekily. "Or maybe two, so the first one won't get lonely?"

Lynda gave him one of her patented sweet smiles. "You only need one, Spike. Just like a goldfish. With a 3 second memory, they won't realise they're alone."

"Hey, great!" grinned Spike. "That means she won't notice when I'm with you."

"I know I don't," Lynda shot back and left the office.

Maisy, one of the new starters, looked horrified.

"What's wrong?" Toni asked.

"I can't believe it! They were getting married! Now they've breaking up, it's so sad!"

The old hands in the office erupted into laughter.

"Don't worry about them, Maisy," Toni grinned. "They've been doing it since Page One!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"So let me get this straight," grinned Kenny. "Lynda thinks you're flying out to LA tomorrow evening when, in actual fact, you're booked on a flight this afternoon?"

Spike just nodded gleefully.

"And you don't forsee any - how shall I put this - retribution for duping her like this?"

Spike leaned back in his chair and hiked his feet onto the nearest available surface which happened to be Kenny's desk. "Kenny, you gotta look at it this way. I'm doing you guys a favour. I've seen her diary. Starting at 6am tomorrow, she's got back-to-back chunks of time devoted to drilling various members of staff before she leaves. You've been pencilled in for 6am-7am, if it helps."

Kenny grimaced. "Why doesn't she trust me? I can do this. I filled in for the Editor on The Messenger back in Adelaide. No problems."

Spike grinned. "That is trust, coming from Lynda. Julie's booked in for three hours and Colin's got 15 minutes on the hour, ever hour!"

"Right, I see," Kenny tapped his pen idly on his desk. "And you're going to take care of the other thing we talked about, yeah?"

"The phone? Sure. Lynda thinks her mobile will work overseas without connecting to global roaming or anything. So I'll let her keep thinking that and feign surprise when she switches it on as soon as we hit the ground at LAX and she can't get a signal."

"Brilliant," replied Kenny. "I think I speak for the whole team when I say thanks a lot!"

"No sweat," shrugged Spike.

"Oh, and Julie wanted you give this to Lynda for her. A going-away present," Kenny rummaged in his drawer and handed Spike a paperback. Spike looked at the title.

"The Devil Wears Prada," he read. "Subtle!"

Lynda stomped through Butterworth's, following the sound of pulsating bass-heavy music. The show was being held on the top floor, seasonally reserved for the Christmas shop. Stepping out of the elevator, her senses were further assaulted by a laser show, strobe lighting and the incessant doof-doof of something Eurodisco. A catwalk was set up with huge backlit screens that proclaimed FASHION WEEK and rows of chairs surrounded it. Lynda approached the desk which was staffed by a blonde wearing an outfit that could only be described as urban Bo-Peep meets 80s hooker. A name tag identified her as BUBBLE.

"Hellllooo!" shrieked Bubble at a frequency level only just audible to humans. "Where are you from, then?"

"Lynda Day, Junior Gaz - I mean, The Phoenix. I'm filling in for Julie Craig."

"Phoenix, Phoenix," muttered the blonde, running her finger down the list. "I don't seem to have . . ."

"That's because you're looking under 'F'," said Lynda dryly.

"Ahhh, Per-ho-nix, like the Harry Potter!" giggled the blonde, rolling her eyes. "Here you are, I've found you, hiding away . . ."

"That's us," replied Lynda wearily. "The Per-ho-nix."

"Jolly good!" Bubble swung into action. "Here's your press pack, your name-badge - I'll just write your name on it, your gift bag, your sample bag, your voucher book . . ."

No wonder Julie was so keen to attend these events, thought Lynda. Look at all this free stuff! I bet she doesn't declare any of it either!

Once she was sufficiently laden, Bubble turned her manic attention to another new arrival, and Lynda went to find her seat after reluctantly pinning her nametag to her lapel which read LINDAH.

"Saffy?" A voice hissed in Lynda's ear. Lynda ignored it.

"Saffy? Sweetie?" said the voice, more insistently, as a bejewelled hand tugged at her sleeve. "What are you doing here, darling? Has that horrible old bat finally dropped off the perch? Hmm? Has she, sweetie?" Lynda swivelled and faced her attacker; a brightly over-dressed, over-blinged, over-aged woman with a mess of frizzy hair, peering at her through fashionably oversized designer sunglasses (despite being indoors, in the dark.)

"I think you may have me confused with someone else," said Lynda as politely as she could, which was not very.

"Oh, funny. Oh, ha ha, sweetie!" continued the woman. "Yes, very amuuuuusing, not recognising your own mother . . ."

"Look," said Lynda, dangerously, "I don't know what medication you're on, prescription or otherwise, but my name's not Saffy, it's Lynda. See?" she tapped her nametag. "L-I-N-D-A-H. Lynda. Maybe if you weren't wearing sunglasses indoors, you wouldn't go around mistaking strangers for family members whom, quite frankly, I pity!"

The woman recoiled in surprise with her hand to her mouth.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the Bitch Troll from Hell," spat another stranger's voice.

"Usually only my closest friends call me that," replied Lynda icily. She stared at the towering, menacing blonde bee-hived woman who was glaring at her with undisguised venom. "Sorry, have we met?"

"It's not Saffy, Pats," said the first woman airily, who seemed to have recovered from the shock.

"But - but!" spluttered Patsy, dragging heavily on a cigarette. "Look at her! Look at the horrible, disgusting little . . ."

"I know, darling, but this is Lindah. See her nametag?"

Patsy squinted short-sightedly at Lynda's lapel. "But Eddie, the clothes! The hair!"

"I know, Pats, I know. I think she must be one of those poppergangers. Come on, they're doing Jagerbombs backstage, darling, and Naomi's already thrown two phones and a bottle of Bolly." They swanned away, leaving Lynda uncharacteristically speechless. This was the last time she filled in for Julie at one of these events. And she would be keeping the freebies - after that little episode, she deserved them!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Spike was getting ever so slightly anxious as the afternoon's minutes continued on a steady march and Lynda had still not returned to the office.

He had already been to Lynda's flat to pick up their luggage. Sophie and Laura had volunteered to house-sit during their absence and - much to everyone's surprise - Lynda had agreed. Spike replaced the 20-page printed and bound document on the table with something a little more succinct.

RULES

1. DON'T BREAK ANYTHING

2. DON'T SELL ANYTHING

3. DON'T MOVE ANYTHING

4. DON'T PAINT, ALTER OR OTHERWISE DECORATE ANYTHING

5. NO COLIN

6. PARTIES UNDER 10 PEOPLE PERMITTED ONLY IF WE CAN'T TELL WHEN WE GET BACK

7. BINS OUT ON TUESDAY NIGHT

8. NO COLIN

9. NO HARASSING, PRESSURING OR OTHERWISE INTIMIDATING THE NEIGHBOURS

10. NO COLIN

Lynda, being Lynda, had packed her suitcase sometime around 1am the night before. Spike took the liberty of removing some of the more offensive garments before he hauled both cases out into the street and into a waiting taxi to return to the newsroom which is where he found himself, glancing uneasily at his birthday present watch.

The phone on his desk rang.

"Hello, Spike Thomson."

"Listen, I thought I'd take care of some stuff this afternoon, so I might not be back in the office until late," said Lynda, dispensing with all preliminaries. "Can you bail Colin up for me so he's there when I get back? I need to put the fear of God into him before the real stuff starts tomorrow."

"How late?" asked Spike, trying to be casual.

"I don't know, half five maybe? So can you delay Colin for me?"

"Uh, well, the thing is . . . they need you back here. Something big is going down."

"What?"

"The . . . ah . . . we've got a . . . tip-off from someone. There's going to be . . . uh, a big bust."

"What kind of bust?" asked Lynda.

"Uhh, people. People smugglers." Spike was then struck by a flash of brilliance - "At Heathrow."

"And you're sure the tip is genuine?"

"Yep," lied Spike. "Come back as soon as you can, I've got a taxi ordered for 2pm." Now, that was the truth.

"I'll be there," said Lynda and hung up. Spike gave a silent fist-clench of victory and began shutting things down and tidying his desk - which, by Spike's definition - meant shoving everything into a drawer.

10 minutes later, the intercom buzzed through his phone.

"Heads up!"

"Thanks Sophie!" He leapt up in time to meet Lynda crashing through the doors.

"Come on, Boss - let's go!"

"Why are you coming?" asked Lynda, surprised.

"Uhh . . . The guy is my source. I gotta be there or he won't talk," improvised Spike on the fly. Lynda appeared to accept this. "Now, wave goodbye because we're out of here!"

"Bye Lynda! Bye Spike!" chorused the rest of the staff who were obviously in on the joke.

"Err. Right. See you tomorrow," said Lynda slightly confusedly as she was bundled out of the door by an impatient Spike.

"Not if we can help it," muttered Colin gleefully, retreating to his office for four blissful Lynda-free weeks.

The taxi was waiting outside of The Phoenix office.

"Why are there suitcases in here?" asked Lynda as they climbed into the back.

"Uhh . . . cover. We've got to look like passengers - like we're supposed to be there," replied Spike airily. Where was all this stuff coming from?

"You've thought of everything!" said Lynda, impressed.

"You bet," replied Spike, hiding a smirk.

They arrived at Heathrow and pulled their bags along the concourse to the check-in desks for United Airlines.

"So we just wait here for your contact, yeah?" asked Lynda, looking around.

"No, actually we're checking in," replied Spike.

"What? Oh, right. Part of the cover, I suppose?"

"Right. Come on, let's go check our bags," Spike ushered Lynda into the queue. "Now, just let me do the talking, I've got an arrangement with the desk here. They'll pretend to check our bags and give us boarding passes," he said, pulling their passports and tickets from his bag. As he anticipated, Lynda was much more interested in scouring their fellow passengers for possible illegality than paying attention to the check-in process.

"Now we wait at the departure gate," he said when they were done. "Come on!"

"What, we have to go through customs and everything?" Lynda asked. "Isn't that a bit elaborate?"

"It's an elaborate set-up," replied Spike, shrugging. "What can I say?"

They cleared customs and sat in the departure lounge. Lynda started getting impatient.

"When is he supposed to be here? I want to get back to the office."

"Yeah, yeah," said Spike. The next few minutes would be crucial. He turned slightly away from Lynda and slyly slid his phone out of his pocket. He quickly scrolled through the menu and selected Ringtones. The tune rang out, giving every impression he was receiving an incoming call, and he quickly put it to his ear.

"Spike Thompson. Hey, man, where are you? Okay, okay. No, I understand. Where? What? Are you sure?" He shot a glance at Lynda, who was looking on with interest, and grimaced for her benefit. "I guess, but won't they . . . No? All right then, man. See you soon." He shut the phone.

"Okay. It looks like we're going to have to actually board the plane," he said.

"Spike, this is ridiculous!" said Lynda. "I think he's having you on!"

"No, no," said Spike hastily. "He's for real, Lynda. I'm sure. We just gotta get on the plane, sit down, then we get off. Trust me." Spike was sweating. "It will all be okay, I swear."

At that point, the boarding call for their faux flight came over the PA system.

"That's us," said Spike, trying hard to be relaxed. "Come on, just act natural. We're just a couple of people on a flight. No big deal."

They boarded the aircraft and took their seats.

"Spike, I really think there's something not right about this," said Lynda anxiously. "I say we give him five minutes and then get off."

"Sure. Okay," said Spike distractedly, watching the cabin crew. Finally the captain spoke.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen and welcome aboard United Flight 925, London Heathrow to Los Angeles LAX. We're currently running on schedule so will be departing at 4.20pm. Our estimated flying time is 15 hours, 23 minutes. So please sit back and enjoy the flight and once again, thank you for flying United."

"Spike!" hissed Lynda. "We've got to get off!"

"Cabin crew arm doors and cross check," said the pilot. Spike sunk back into his seat and breathed a sigh of relief. He had done it!

"Spike! Come on!" said Lynda, standing up and moving into the aisle. Spike grabbed her hand and pulled her back into her seat.

"Now, Lynda, promise you won't get mad?" he said, with his most beguiling look.

Lynda's eyes narrowed. "What. Have. You. Done."

"There is no contact and there is no people-smuggling ring. This is our flight to the States."

"What?" Lynda shrieked. "But I haven't wrapped things up at the office! And what about my luggage? And my work?"

"It's all taken care of," Spike soothed. "Trust me."

"Trust you! You just lied me onto an international flight!" Lynda pulled out her mobile phone and dialled The Phoenix. "Put me through to Kenny," she barked at Sophie. "No, actually, make it Colin. No . . . Kenny. Definitely Kenny." Pause. "Did you know about this? I'm sitting on a flight to Los Angeles with possibly the stupidest person on Earth and I . . ."

"Excuse me, ma'am," said the flight attendant appearing next to Lynda, "I'm going to have to ask you to hang up your cell and switch it off now, okay? We're about to take off."

Lynda covered the mouthpiece briefly. "Won't be a second!" Back into the phone she continued, "Now, Kenny, I want . . ."

"Ma'am," said the flight attendant a little more sharply. "I really am going to have to ask you to switch off your cell phone right now."

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Fine. Kenny, I'll call you as soon as we land." She snapped her phone shut and switched it off, shoving into her pocket.

"Hope you've got some change for a pay phone then!" said Kenny cheerfully to the dial tone.

Then, to the flight attendant's amazement, Lynda pulled out a notepad from her bag and flipped down the tray table in front of her to lean on.

"Ma'am! Please return your tray table to the locked and upright position until we are in the air," snapped the flight attendant.

Lynda did so huffily and Spike groaned to himself. Usually he charmed flight attendants and managed to get some extra snacks or overly-attentive drink service. Now he would be ignored. It was going to be a long flight and with - the way Lynda was glaring at him – there would be plenty of turbulence!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!

Colin was almost giddy with the thought of Lynda safely ensconced 30,000 feet in the air and moving away rapidly. It made him want to do things, strange things, like buy presents for people or give away money to charity. But there was no time for that kind of foolish thinking. He had a plan and the plan needed action.

He picked up his phone and dialled the number he had been given.

"Have you got the stuff?" he asked the voice who answered, without preamble.

"I have," replied the Scottish accent on the other end of the line. "And you have got what we agreed to?"

"Don't worry about that," Colin replied smoothly. "Everything's under control this end. The bird has flown."

"Where do you want to do the exchange?" asked the voice.

"Czar's Cafe. Hercies Road. You know it?"

"I do. See you at noon. Booth at the far end. Remember the code." The call ended.

Colin's excitement kicked up a notch. He loved this kind of thing. The wheeling and dealing, the espionage, code names, it was like being in a modern Enid Blyton adventure story, without a tongue or jar of potted meat in sight. Picking up his jacket and slinging it casually over his shoulder, he admired his reflection in the mirror on the back of his office door. Perhaps he should get one of those fedora hats to complete the look. Maybe Julie had one in the fashion department he could borrow? Breezing down the corridor, he strolled into Julie's office and found just what he was after on her hat rack. Perfect. Taking it back to his office, he practiced interesting ways of putting it on and taking it off before finally settling on a rakish angle.

"Jolly good!" he murmered to himself. He intended to go out via his secret door to preserve the Enid Blytonness of the whole thing but decided he might as well share his style with the rest of the office. Was this how Spike felt every day, he wondered? Strolling out onto the floor, he noticed the girls noticing him - which was such a new experience, he nearly turned tail and ran. However, he managed to maintain his cool stride before propping up at the reception desk.

"Sophie," he said in what he perceived to be a husky, interesting voice. "I'm going out. Might be back, might not. You never can tell on these jobs."

"No problems, Colin!" replied Sophie cheerfully. "But why are you wearing a girl's hat?"

Colin's throat tightened but outwardly, he remained calm. "It's not a girl's hat. It's a man's hat. From a man's shop."

"Yes, it is a girl's hat. See?" Sophie lifted the hat from Colin's head and pointed to the label. "Miss Selfridges."

"They're err . . . doing menswear now too," bluffed Colin in the same husky, interesting drawl. "Don't you follow fashion, Sophie?"

"Oh, right. Yes. Okay," replied Sophie replacing the hat on his head. "Well, see you later, then." Colin strode out towards the doors. "Oh - and Colin?"

He stopped and turned.

"I hope your voice gets better soon!"

Colin muttered something in disgust and, as soon as he was out of sight, stuffed the hat into a rubbish bin.

His mood lifted a little when he entered the steamy noisy café and saw his contact already seated at the designated spot with his back to him. He slid into the booth and leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Ladybird, ladybird," he said.

"Fly away home, " replied the contact in his Scottish burr.

Colin nodded and slid an envelope across the table. The contact responded by sliding over a plastic folder.

"It's quality stuff. You won't be disappointed," said the contact. "I think you'll find everything you need in there. If you need more, let me know. I can get it."

Colin had a quick look at the folder's contents. "Oh, I think this will meet the needs of the people I'm dealing with."

"It's a ruthless business, Colin, " said the contact. "Are you sure you want to get messed up in all of this? "

Colin allowed himself a quick mental picture of fast cars, beautiful women, lavish parties and the lifestyle of a king.

"What could possibly go wrong?"

The cabin temperature aboard United Flight 925 remained decidedly frosty until Lynda thawed about halfway over the Atlantic.

"Spike," she said, "Why did you go to all that trouble to get me onto an earlier flight?"

Five hours was considered quite a quick defrosting by Lynda's standards and Spike was more than a little relieved. He had been entertaining frightening thoughts of her storming through LAX and disappearing into the unknown. Hiding his delight at her speaking to him again with a noncholant shrug, he pulled the iPod phones from his ears and lifted up the Ray Bans he had been hiding behind.

"A couple of reasons," he replied. "One: as a favour to your staff. They're adults, Lynda. They don't need to be terrorised into coping while you're away. Kenny's a more than capable leader . . ."

"Are you forgetting the Colin factor?" bristled Lynda. "The Gaz fiasco?"

"No, I'm not," replied Spike soothingly, moving into instant damage control. "Not at all. Which is why I had a word with him before we left."

"You had a word with Colin? What did you say?"

"Let's just say I can't repeat it in mixed company," Spike grinned. Lynda smiled back in spite of herself. Another load off her mind. Spike really did think of everything. Lynda wondered briefly what direction his life might have taken had he been more academically inclined.

"So anyway, the second reason I bundled you onto this flight," Spike continued, "It was to get you so flustered and maybe even a little mad to take your mind off your fear of flying."

"What do you mean, my fear of flying?" asked Lynda indignantly, as her hands betrayed her by digging into the arm rests.

"Relax, Boss. Your mom told me. You're not a good flyer. So what. Plenty of people don't like it. One in four adults, they say."

"I'm a perfectly relaxed flyer," Lynda retorted as her foot began jiggling. "No problems."

"Really?" Spike asked. "So that wasn't you who - aged 15 - spent the entire flight to Paris barricaded in the toilets and causing a security scare at Charles De Gaull?"

"I wasn't feeling well," said Lynda haughtily. "I ate something bad."

"Lynda . . ." said Spike warningly.

"Oh, fine. I don't like flying much, okay? There's just something about not being up the front I don't like."

"In the driver's seat," said Spike. "In control."

"Noooo," replied Lynda slowly. "I mean, I'm fine in a taxi. I just like to be able to see where I'm going."

"Would you like the window seat?" offered Spike after a moment's silence.

"Oh, no, that's fine, thank you," replied Lynda politely. Spike rolled his eyes and unclicked his seatbelt. "Come on, Boss. Check out the view."

"Well, okay. Since you're offering." She scooted over to the window seat and peered out. Spike distinctly heard a sigh and noticed her hands relaxing into her lap. Another job well done.

Later into the flight, the cabin lights were switched off and flight attendants handed out blankets and pillows to the passengers. Spike and Lynda curled up under their shared blanket.

"You know, Boss, they've got this club . . ."

"No chance, Thomson!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

To: Phillips, Kenny; Craig, Julie; Davies, Frazz; Mathews, Colin; Homer, Billy; Tildesley, Toni; The Phoenix; Chrissie STUART; Matt KERR; sullivan03

From: spike

Subject: greetings from america

hey guys

well we made it ok 2 la la land - thanx 4 all yr help in getting the bird 2 fly!!11!!

The "turbulance" wasn't 2 bad, only a couple hours :P we're waiting at lax 4 my aunt and uncla 2 come pick us up, their stuck in traffic - ah, its good to be home??

Lynda's phone doesn't seem 2 work over here ;) so sadly she wont b able 2 call u all. Will b checking email and my cell is working if u need 2 get in touch. Julie - lynda says thanx 4 the book and she has picked up some good tips?? Wat have u done!!

have fun at work, suckers!

spike

Spike clicked "Send" and the email greeting was on the way back to the UK. Meanwhile, here he was in LA with Lynda beside him.

He had often dreamt of bringing her to America, ever since he met her all those years ago. At first, he thought it would take her down a peg - being out of her comfort zone. Maybe even shake her up a bit and then be there for her like a knight in shining Nikes. Then he thought he'd like to tease her by encouraging misunderstandings and culture clashes, having jokes at her expense with his old friends. Since he had matured along with their relationship, it was more about wanting her to see where he had grown up, what made him Spike. And also to meet some family members that weren't his dysfunctional parents.

He finished up on the internet and turned to look at her sitting beside him. She had been yawning in the immigration queue (to his dismay, he had to leave her alone briefly as he went through the US citizens line) but she seemed much more alert now, taking in her surroundings and drinking a Starbucks coffee like a local. Well, almost, he reflected, as Lynda wrinkled her nose slightly before finishing the cup and walking over to throw it in the bin.

"Hey lady, welcome to Los Angeles! You need to know anything? Hotels, taxis? Directions?" A tall black man towered over her with his hand out and Lynda jumped.

"Hey man. No, we're locals, thanks," replied Spike, joining her and sliding a bill into the outstretched hand before clasping it briefly.

"Oh, no problem, dude," said the man and walked away.

Lynda looked surprised. "You tip airport staff here?"

Spike chuckled. "That guy is always here. He doesn't actually work for the airport. He says he collects money for a women's shelter. But he helps you out if you need it. It's pretty easy to feel a bit lost arriving into LAX."

"But how do you know he's definitely collecting for a shelter?" Lynda asked.

"I guess I don't," replied Spike.

Lynda looked aghast. "But . . . he could be a con artist! He's probably gone straight to the bar!" She craned her neck and tried to see where the man had disappeared to.

"Maybe," shrugged Spike. "But maybe not. You know me, Lynda. I like to believe there's good in people."

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Well, I believe you're a sucker."

"Sucker for punishment, anyway," said Spike, giving her a squeeze. "Hey! There's my aunt and uncle." He waved. A couple in their early 50s waved back excitedly and hurried over. They fit the bill for California, tanned skin, blonde hair and a youthful exuberance.

"Spike, honey!" Spike's aunt hugged him ferociously. "And you must be Lynda! So good to meet you at last!"

"Lynda, this is my Aunt Thelma," said Spike as Lynda received an equally enthusiastic hug.

"And I'm his Uncle Bob. But call me Eddie. Everyone else does," added Spike's uncle, opting for a more reserved yet no less hearty handshake.

"Wait a minute! Crazy Eddie?" Lynda shot a glance at Spike, who shrugged.

"I told you it was a true story!"

* * *

Colin had received the email greeting in good humour. It was true Spike had spent some time impressing on to him what would be considered acceptable behaviour during Lynda's absence - including flow charts, diagrams and a test involving large DO and DON'T flashcards but he was confident she would support his current venture. It would, after all, mean exposure and publicity for the magazine and have an additional flow-on effect for the recently re-launched Junior Gazette version 3.0. As it happened, he had a meeting with some heavyweights to discuss the project's direction that very afternoon. He planned to hit them with the material supplied by his Scottish connection and then dazzle them with some patented CM Enterprises negotiation techniques. He couldn't wait until the project was green-lighted. This would really set him up for life. The days of selling odd merchandise and bootleg CDs from the back of his mum's car were long gone. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for the 200 copies of Victoria Beckham's last album that were still neatly stacked in piles in the loungeroom. Well, 199 really, as one had come in handy for stabilising his rickety kitchen table. Perhaps there was a market . . . ?

He permitted himself a brief daydream; arriving home to his large, comfortable (yet still very manly) flat after parking his impressive (and very manly) vehicle outside and having someone waiting inside to share the news of his brilliance with. Maybe with his slippers ready and a cup of cocoa. Someone who would think he was marvellous. Not a cold brunette beauty like Judy Wellman and not a bubbly brash blonde like Julie either. Someone . . . Warm. Different. Understanding.

He mused upon this for a while and resolved to update his profile on Maybe he should change the photo online at Sexy Singles. Some birds just didn't appreciate a good zebra-print duvet.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Thelma and Eddie were proud Volvo drivers - not to mention vegetarians, supporters of Greenpeace and brakers for animals as the stickers on their bumper testified. Lynda gaped at the rest of the traffic as they drove out of LAX.

"Where are all of these people going?" she wondered aloud.

"Into an early grave, most of 'em!" replied Eddie as an enormous black SUV up ahead wove impatiently in and out of traffic. "What's the hurry?"

He gently eased the car into the right lane as other cars shot by, some of the drivers gesticulating.

Eddie waved cheerfully. "Have a nice day!"

They cruised at a sensible speed through the super highways of suburban Los Angeles. Palm trees shot up between office blocks and apartment buildings. Spike pointed things out to Lynda along the way.

"See that Wendy's? That's where I had my 13th birthday party. My mom left before the cake came out."

"Did she have to work?" asked Lynda.

"No," replied Spike. "She left my Dad."

"Oh," Lynda squirmed. "Well, at least you were used to it."

"On a brighter note," continued Spike as though he hadn't heard. "Look through there, up in the hills. See that?"

Lynda squinted. "The white letters? What does it say?"

Spike looked aghast and Eddie and Thelma both swivelled to look into the back seat before Eddie quickly turned his attention back to the road and the intersection he was approaching.

"That's the Hollywood sign," said Spike. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the Hollywood sign?"

"Of course I have," replied Lynda huffily. "Do you think I've been living under a rock? I just couldn't read it because of the smog."

Eddie tutted. "Yes, you're right, Lynda. It is bad today. I was watching the Air Watch segment on the Weather channel before we came and . . ."

Spike shrugged. "It'll burn off."

"Oh, Spike, that's not the attitude to take," said Thelma earnestly. "Air quality affects us all, we should be doing more to reduce emissions . . ."

"Okay, okay!" Spike held up his hands in mock surrender. "I give in! Don't make me eat another lentil burger!"

Suddenly and without warning, Lynda flung her arms around Spike.

"Thank you for bringing me," she murmured, snuggling into his chest.

"Oh, no problem, Boss," replied Spike, a little taken aback. Lynda withdrew, smiled and continued looking out of the window.

Eventually, they pulled into the driveway of a classic California bungalow.

"Welcome!" said Eddie, pulling open Lynda's door grandly.

"Thank you," replied Lynda as she got out of the car.

"And this is our boy," said Aunt Thelma, proudly. The "boy" in question looked to be in his early 20s and at least 6 foot three. He had shambled out of the front door, given a wordless hug to Spike, smiled sleepily at Lynda and extended his large hand.

"Hey. I'm Randy."

"How nice for you," replied Lynda icily, folding her arms. "But I can't help you with that."

Randy looked confused as Spike discreetly explained Randy was his name and not his current state of arousal.

"Oh, right. Sorry," said Lynda, blushing furiously. "Nice to meet you . . . errr, Randy."

"Now, Lynda, I bet you're just dying for a cup of tea, am I right?" Thelma asked as she bustled everyone inside.

"I'd love one," replied Lynda gratefully and then watched in horror as Thelma cheerfully filled a mug with water, threw in a teabag and stuck it in the microwave.

There was silence as all eyes turned to Lynda and the mug rotated for a few seconds. Spike was the first to break.

"Oh, Aunt! You still doin' that old joke?"

Thelma, Eddie and Randy joined in the laughter and this time it was Lynda's turn to look confused.

"Aunt Thelma played that trick on my Mom when they first met," explained Spike as Thelma - still giggling - stopped the microwave, poured out the mug of water and began expertly spooning loose tea into a teapot.

"I know how the English feel about tea," said Thelma. "Matter of fact, I'm a tea drinker myself. Ginko and ginseng in the morning, organic green during the day, chamomile at night. But don't worry. I still keep some black tea in the house for visitors!"

"Oh, thank God," blurted Lynda as everyone chuckled.

"You should try green tea though. Good for the system. Flushes everything out," Eddie added.

"And on that note . . . " said Spike, excusing himself.

When he returned a few minutes later, Lynda was no longer sitting at the table.

"Where's Lynda?"

Thelma looked surprised. "Didn't you see her? She said she was going to use the bathroom. You would have passed each other in the hall."

"No, I didn't," replied Spike, confused. "Wait, do you hear that?"

A muffled raised voice could be heard through the walls. Spike dashed into the hallway and flung open the first door. Nothing but a startled cat. He threw open the second door and sent Lynda flying onto Randy's bed, knocking a phone out of her hand and onto the floor.

"Hey! My cell!" cried Spike indignantly, patting his pockets. "When did you . . ."

"The hug in the car. I knew you wouldn't give it to me otherwise," replied Lynda, scrambling hastily to retrieve the phone. "Colin? Are you still there? Listen, I mean it. One foot wrong and the only magazine you'll be selling will be The Big Issue!"

"Give me that!" Spike snatched the phone from Lynda. "Goodbye, Colin!"

"I hadn't finished yet," sulked Lynda as Spike snapped the phone shut.

"Yes, you had," replied Spike. "You conniving, manipulative, thieving . . ."

"Everything okay in here?" Thelma poked her head around the door.

"Fine!" replied Lynda and Spike together.

"I couldn't help but overhear . . ." Thelma looked uncomfortable. "It sounded kind of confronting and invalidating."

"Don't worry. That passes for terms of endearment in our relationship," said Lynda dryly.

"Maybe we could have a feeling circle?" asked Thelma hopefully. "Share the air, get some validation happening?"

Lynda looked horrified.

"Sounds great, Aunt," said Spike slyly, with a sideways glance at Lynda. "I think we could all use some feeling right now."

"Super! You just come back on into the kitchen, I'll light some oils, it will be very relaxing and we can all reaffirm our love for each other!" She beamed and went back to the kitchen. Lynda could hear her calling for Eddie to find the patchouli and for Randy to put on the Enya CD.

"What have you done, Thomson?" asked Lynda through clenched teeth.

Spike grinned. "Welcome to California!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Tchah!"

"What is it, Frazz?" asked Toni, who had been walking past the sports editor at the time of his derisive snort.

"This excuse for a horoscope writer they've got down at the Junior Gazette now," Frazz tossed her the paper he'd been reading. Toni opened it to the horoscopes and read aloud. " 'Scorpio. You unexpectedly become a millionaire and your maths teacher explodes'. So what? Sounds like the kind of stuff you were writing in the beginning."

"Exactly," replied Frazz. "That's exactly the kind of stuff I was writing in the beginning. Word for word. I remember it very clearly."

Toni shot him a dubious look. "Frazz, you struggle to remember your own name clearly."

"Ahhhh," Frazz wagged his finger at her. "Yes, but this is different. Lynda made me type it 100 times when I couldn't think of anything better. It just kind of stuck."

"I see," said Toni.

"And now, somehow, this chump down at the Junior Gazette has channelled it into their column," said Frazz. "But how?"

"I don't know, Frazz. It's a mystery. Maybe you should get your old friend Colonel X to help you out?" She walked off in the direction of her office as Frazz rolled his eyes. One encounter with a fictional character and you could never live it down. Still, Colonel X or not, there was no reason why he couldn't do a little "investigating" himself. And without Lynda in the building, let alone the country, he didn't even need to invent an excuse.

Grabbing his coat, he did a quick check in the mirror and ran his hand through his short hair. A much nicer look than the bald head he rocked a few years ago. Curls get the girls, after all.

Frazz walked through the Norbridge streets and to the site of the newly reconstructed Junior Gazette building. No more swinging double doors to push through, just a frosted glass single door with **the junior gazette** etched into it. Frazz turned the handle and pushed. Nothing. He tried again and then again.

"Oh, right. Pull," he said to himself. "Tricky."

He yanked the handle. Still nothing. He checked his watch. 4.20pm. Surely there would be kids in there at work by now? He cupped his hands against the glass and tried to peer through to no avail. Suddenly a loud, harsh buzz sounded right by his ear and he stumbled back.

"Yes?" asked the imperious voice.

"Lynda?" asked Frazz confused.

"She doesn't work here anymore. I'm the new editor. Can I help you?"

"Uh, yeah," said Frazz. "I used to work here too."

"And?"

"And I wanted to just - you know - come in and say hi. Meet the new team."

There was a crackly pause.

"Fine. Just try not to distract my team too much. We do have deadlines, you know."

"I know," muttered Frazz. There was a click as the door was disengaged and he entered the new building, whistling at the carpeted entrance and modern decor.

He stepped into the newsroom proper. No more noisy typewriters, just the muted click of computer keys. The layout still looked vaguely the same, with double desks near the window, clusters of desks on the main floor and storage at the back.

To his left, a tiny blonde girl stood with her arms folded, looking at him expectantly.

"Oh, hi. I'm the guy from the door? Is the editor still around?"

"Yes," retorted the girl. "And you're looking at her."

"Ah, okay," replied Frazz. There was an awkward pause. "So. You're the editor."

"Well done," snapped the girl. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got work to do?"

"Right. Sure. I know how it is here, all go go go!"

"Yeah," said the girl witheringly, turned on her heel and marched back to the desk under

the window.

"Don't let her get to you," said a young boy at Frazz's elbow. "She's like that with everyone so it's possible she really likes you."

"That's comforting," mumbled Frazz.

"So, can I help you? Are you after anyone in particular?" the boy offered helpfully.

"No. Well, yeah. Who does your horoscopes?"

The boy laughed. "Frazz does."

"What?" Frazz looked around wildly. Had he entered some sort of wacky hole in the space time continuum?

"Frazz," repeated the boy. "Hey, are you okay?"

Frazz's eyes had rolled back in his head and his 6 foot 3 frame had slumped onto the floor in a faint.

"Just throw him in the canal. He'll soon wake up," said a voice.

"Lynda?" Frazz opened his eyes blurrily but it was not Lynda that stood before him, rather the small blonde girl and the helpful boy he had been chatting with.

"Oh, goodie. He's fine," said the girl and left without further ado.

"Not quite," said Frazz, sitting up and touching his head gingerly. He had bumped the spot where he was coshed a few years back and it was throbbing quite insistently. "What were you talking about, Frazz doing the horoscopes?"

"Well, this guy, Frazz, he used to do them on the old JG, right?" said the boy. "And Lucinda said she couldn't spare anyone on the team to do them each week when the paper restarted. So we're going through all the old archived stuff in the offsite storage facility and we found this box with FRAZZ REJECTS on it. Inside were loads of wacky horoscope predictions that never made the cut on the original JG but our readers love them!"

"Hang on. So you're just digging into this box every week and making up the horoscopes from that?"

"That's right. Don't know what we're going to do when we run out though. Pity we can't get old Frazz to do some more!"

"Maybe you can," said Frazz slowly. "I, er, still keep in touch with him from time to time."

"Really? Brilliant!" The kid grinned. "We couldn't pay him of course but . . ."

"Oh. Well, you know, actually, I've just remembered he's moved. To Birmingham."

"Oh," the kid looked disappointed. "Well, never mind. Maybe he could email you some stuff."

"Yeah. Maybe," Frazz got to his feet. "Well, it's been nice meeting you."

"Yeah, you too. So what did you do on the paper when you were here?"

"Wrote the horoscopes," replied Frazz and immediately bit his tongue.

The kid looked puzzled. "Hang on. Then you must be . . ."

"Frazz. That's right," Frazz said, making his way to the door.

"But you just said he'd moved to Birmingham!"

"Well, I hit my head, didn't I?"

"Hang on! We've had bets on this," called the kid. "What's your star sign?"

Frazz turned before he bolted through the door.

"Haemoglobin!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

"Okay, everyone, let's begin," said Thelma, when everyone was seated around the kitchen table. The curtains had been drawn and candles were placed around the room. Enya was singing about the Orinoco Flow at just the right volume and the patchouli oil was placed in the dolphin-shaped oil burner with a tea candle flickering brightly inside it. "Let's all take each other's hands and form the circle."

Spike solemnly reached for the hands of his uncle and cousin while Lynda took Randy's other hand and Thelma's reluctantly.

"Now, let's close our eyes, take some deep breaths and concentrate on how we are feeling right at this moment. Ready?"

"Ready!" replied Spike, Eddie and Randy.

"Lynda?"

"As I'll ever be," sighed Lynda.

"Good! Now. Let's take turns around the circle, using the format of saying what we're feeling - honestly - and then 'And most of all, I'm feeling . . .' and vocalising our overarching emotions. Okay? Who would like to start?"

"I will," volunteered Eddie.

"Thank you, Eddie," replied Thelma, smiling at her husband. "When you're ready, honey."

"Okay," Eddie took in a deep breath, exhaled and smiled. "I feel glad to see my nephew again. I feel pleased to meet Lynda for the first time. I feel proud of my son Randy. And most of all, I feel intense love for my beautiful wife."

Thelma beamed. "Thank you, my love. I will go next, if nobody minds?"

Nobody did, so she continued. "I too feel glad to see Spike again and I feel happy he has brought Lynda to meet us. I feel love for my son and for my husband. But most of all, I feel blessed that we are all together and share good health."

"For now," muttered Lynda, shooting daggers at Spike, who smiled back at her benignly.

"Randy? Would you like to go next?" Thelma asked.

"Sure, Mom," said Randy. "I'm feeling happy to see Spike again and to meet Lynda. I'm feeling glad for Spike that she's better looking than that Zoe chick," - Lynda looked smug at this point - "I'm feeling love for my Mom and Dad. And most of all, I'm feeling hungry because I ain't had anything to eat for a while."

"Thank you, Randy. We appreciate your honesty," Thelma smiled at her son. "Now, Spike?"

"Okay." Spike breathed in and exhaled like Eddie did. "First, I feel grateful to my aunt and uncle and cousin for making us welcome. I feel happy to see everyone again, and glad to be back in LA for a while. I also feel kinda hungry."

Everyone chuckled.

"But seriously, I feel disappointed Lynda doesn't trust her staff back home. I feel sorry she can't relax and enjoy a holiday. I feel . . ."

"I feel you don't understand the first thing about running a newspaper!" Lynda interjected angrily.

"I feel you've forgotten it's a magazine," countered Spike.

"I feel annoyed you feel the need to point that out when it's clearly what I meant," snapped Lynda.

"I feel it was necessary to point it out for the benefit of those who don't know," replied Spike, annoyingly.

"I feel you're an idiot!"

"I feel you're obsessive-compulsive!"

"Please! Spike and Lynda, please!" Thelma was very upset. "Let's strip this down. Let's not go into name-calling. It's so invalidating . . ."

"I feel invalidated," said Spike, helpfully.

"I feel you should shut up," replied Lynda.

"I can see we're going to need to pull out the big guns here," said Thelma, in despair. "Randy, change CDs please. Sounds Of The Forest Volume 2. Eddie, please fetch the Renewing Oil."

Both did as they were told.

"Now," said Thelma, when the sounds of the forest filled the room and Eddie had brought in a pretty blue glass bottle. "This ia a calming, anti-anxiety, anti-stress and rejuvenation perfume oil elixir and it will help you feel relaxed and renewed. It's got extracts from the magical Tulsi plant from India, superior Egyptian jasmine and lavender kashmir, all renowned for healing, balancing and bringing new life."

She unscrewed the bottle and dabbed a little on Spike and Lynda's wrists.

"Now, I think we'll just leave you two together to allow the oil to work," she said, ushering Eddie and Randy out of the room and closing the door behind them.

"Great," hissed Lynda. "Now I stink of Tulsi plant." She sniffed at her wrist and her face softened a little. "Although, actually it smells quite nice."

Spike sniffed at his own wrist. "Yeah. Not bad. Kind of girly though."

"Since when have you worried about smelling girly?" Lynda asked, not unkindly.

"Just find me a girly to smell!" replied Spike, cheerfully.

"Will this one do?" Lynda asked, holding out her wrist flirtaciously. Spike sniffed experimentally. "Mmm. Not bad. I might need to conduct a more thorough investigation though."

He leant forward and nuzzled into her neck. "Mmm. Smells good. Maybe even edible."

10 minutes had passed. Thelma and Eddie were in the family room, waiting.

"I do hope they are working things out," said Thelma anxiously. "I couldn't stand the thought of Spike and Lynda going through the years of pain that James and Katherine did. That was so heartbreaking for everyone. Especially Spike."

Eddie patted his wife's knee. "I'm sure they will be fine, honey."

"I'm sure they will be too," said Randy, appearing at the doorway, munching a cookie. "Coz they're making out like crazy in the kitchen!"

"Randy!" gasped Thelma. "What were you doing in the kitchen?"

Randy shrugged. "Told you I was hungry."

It was half an hour before Spike and Lynda emerged looking considerably more renewed and relaxed.

"Thanks for your help, Aunt. I think that oil really did the trick. Err, I hope you don't mind, but we kind of used the rest up," Spike rubbed his chin sheepishly while Lynda pretended to be very interested in the cat.

"Oh, that's no problem, dear. I have some more. I buy in bulk off the internet," Thelma said. "In fact, you can take a bottle with you. Just apply it to your body like any perfume oil and use as needed throughout each day for peace, calming and rejuvenation."

"Sounds great," said Spike and Lynda nodded before breaking out into a huge yawn.

"I guess we really should get you guys home!" said Eddie.

"Oh! My goodness, yes! You must be absolutely bushed!" said Thelma.

"Something like that," mumbled Lynda.

They allowed themselves to be bustled into the car and ferried a short distance to Santa Monica where they pulled into the drive of an impressive white stucco townhouse. They unloaded the luggage from the Volvo and Spike stood for a moment, looking at the house with a strange expression on his face.

Eddie squeezed his nephew's shoulder. "He wished he could have known you better, Spike. I know he did. He told me."

"Yeah. Would have been nice if he mentioned it to me," replied Spike.

"Ermm, did he actually - you know - pass away here?" asked Lynda uncomfortably.

"No, honey. He died at the hospital. He was walking along the beach when it happened," said Thelma.

"Oh," replied Lynda, secretly thankful.

"I've been through with white sage incense for cleansing and burned some black candles to absorb any negative energy that might have been hanging around," Thelma continued. "I think you'll be happy here. It really is a beautiful house. Lots of light."

"We've got some groceries in too," added Eddie. "Just a few essentials until you can get to the store."

"Hey, thanks guys. We really appreciate all you've done," said Spike.

"Oh honey, it's a pleasure," said Thelma, giving him a big hug. "Now, you just let us know if you need anything at all, won't you?"

"Will do," replied Spike as they drove off. He put the key in the lock and pushed the door open. "After you!"

"It's beautiful!" said Lynda, impressed. She walked into the hall and gazed up into the stairwell towards the skylight. "Is it really yours?"

"Yeah," said Spike quietly. "It's the best thing he ever gave me, and even that was by default."


	14. Chapter 14

Colin had redirected the material provided to him by his Scottish connection to several outlets and had been sweating on a response. Would the quality be of a sufficiently high standard? Was it enough to meet demand? Could he easily fill orders for more? Could the connection provide it at short notice or would he be forced to cook something up himself?

He paced his office, compulsively checking he hadn't accidentally switched his mobile phone to silent, ringing his landline from his mobile and vice versa to check the line was working and hitting "Send/Receive" on his email on average every thirty seconds.

The call came around 1.30pm when he finally received a summons to attend at one of the recipient's offices. They were interested - very interested - in what he had provided them with. They wanted more. And they wanted to meet with him as soon as possible. Colin was cool with that. Cool as Spike on a cold day.

Of course, that was just the impression he gave over the phone. In reality, he was sweating like he would if Lynda was considering an external audit. Lucky he kept a spare suit in the office. The life of a financial advisor and enterprising tycoon was an unpredictable one and Colin never knew if he was going to have a drink thrown at him, have a product explode or melt unexpectedly or even get roughed up by an unhappy punter.

He changed quickly and sprayed himself liberally with a knock-off version of Hugo Boss for Men which smelled suspiciously like Orange Blossom toilet freshener.

He took the back door this time and hailed a taxi on the street.

"Manton Street, please," he told the driver, climbing into the back seat.

"Ho ho! You want to be careful in that area," chuckled the driver as he pulled away from the Phoenix offices and into traffic. "Right dodgy place. Fleece you as soon as look at you."

"I've got business there," said Colin coolly, snapping open his briefcase and checking his reflection in the mirror contained within.

The driver looked at Colin in his rear-vision mirror with something amounting to respect on his face.

"Cor - you're not in that game are you?"

"I can't really talk about it," said Colin, apologetically. "You understand. Contracts and all that."

"Of course!" nodded the driver. "Ah, here we are. Let me get that door for you, sir."

He jumped out of the driver's seat and pulled Colin's door open grandly.

"Thank you." Colin paid the taxi driver and requested a receipt as usual. Only this really was official business he could legitimately claim. The building was one of those modern ones with lots of glass and polished copper panels in a very upmarket business district of Norbridge. Very nice.

He took a deep breath to compose himself, pulled open the door and entered the lobby. He took two steps, then sharply turned on his heel and exited, to find the taxi driver holding his briefcase out to him. He gave his thanks, reclaimed the case (which was really just for looks and the handy mirror) and tried entering the building again.

Following the directions in the lobby, he turned a corner, opened a door and entered a posh reception area - all blond wood, downlighting and tasteful colours. A girl seated at the front desk looked up as he approached and smiled. Colin smiled back cautiously.

"And how many do you think you'll need?" she asked.

Colin looked around. "Err, just one for starters?"

The receptionist smiled again and pointed to her headset.

"Oh, no thanks. I've already got one." Colin replied. "Got a few, actually. Good price too."

The receptionist shook her head and mouthed at him.

"Having problems with the sound?" Colin guessed. "You should try my supplier. Nothing dodgy . . ."

She shook her head, scribbling on a Post-It as she said, "Yes, that's right." She held up the Post-It which said I'M ON THE PHONE.

"Ah," mouthed Colin. "Sorry." He waited uncomfortably for her to finish, which gave him ample time to wonder whether to say Hi or Hello when she finally did greet him. Eventually, she pressed a key, hung up from her call and looked up at him.

"Now. How can I help you?"

"Hilo," replied Colin. "I mean, hello. I'm Colin Mathews. I have a meeting here at 2pm?"

"Oh, right, yes. Here you are. If you'd just like to sign the visitor's book and take this badge . . ." Colin did so and pinned the badge to his lapel. "If you'll just take a seat, they should be with you shortly."

Colin perched himself stiffly onto the edge of one of the squashy square seats and pretended to leaf through the Financial Times even though he really wanted to read OK! and catch up on some celebrity gossip.

"Excuse me?" called the receptionist. Colin's head snapped up. "I was just wondering. Would you like to have a tea or coffee?"

"Errr," replied Colin. The receptionist was naturally beautiful which was enough to make his tongue stick to the back of his throat as it was, let alone her asking him out so boldly! "Errr, yes, well - I would love to, of course, but I'm just about to go into a meeting. Maybe later though. When's your next break?"

The receptionist smiled. "I meant, would you like a tea or coffee while you're waiting? We have a new machine in the kitchen."

Colin gulped.

"Right. Of course. Yes. Please. Thank you." He bent his head to the paper as though enthralled by the article on mortgage brokering for fun and profit.

"What would you like?" asked the receptionist patiently.

"Hmm? Oh, coffee."

"Flat white, latte, cappucino, moccacino, short black?"

Colin's brain frantically processed the options and chose the most manly-sounding.

"Short black."

"Sugar?"

"Three," he replied automatically. The receptionist raised her eyebrows slightly as she dialled a number on the switchboard.

"Hi Kellie. Can we get a short black, three sugars for Mr Mathews at reception? Yes, that's right. Three."

Colin buried his head in the Financial Times again until Kellie placed his drink before him.

"Thank you," he said brusquely, nodding at her and then looked at the tiny cup and laughed.

"Excuse me? What's this?" he asked.

"A short black," replied Kellie, looking from Colin to the receptionist. "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

"Have you run out of proper mugs?" Colin asked, before looking around. "Oh, I get it. I'm on one of those Jeremy Beadle shows or something, aren't I? Well, you got me!" He picked up the little cup and took a little sip from it. "Oooh, it's magical fairy coffee! I'm going to grow wings soon!"

Kellie backed away slowly, exchanging glances with the receptionist. Sure, they often had nutters in the reception area but this one was actually supposed to be there.

Colin finished his fairy coffee. It was very strong and with the three sugars stirred in, his heart was soon ticking over at a rapid rate. His leg jiggled constantly and he couldn't sit still.

"Mr Mathews?" an American voice called him and he nearly hit the roof.

"Yes? Me! Hello!" He jumped to his feet and pumped the woman's hand enthusiastically.

"I'm Sandra Hastie. Won't you come through?"


	15. Chapter 15

"Lynda."

"Mmphh."

"Lynda!" More firmly this time.

"Mmphh!" Equally firm response.

"Come on, Lynda . . ." Wheedling now.

The tousled head emerged from under the duvet. "What's all that horrible light?"

"It's called sunshine. We get quite a lot of it in California, so you better get used to it."

"Well, can't you turn it off? I'm trying to sleep!"

"No more sleep for you," said Spike bouncing onto the bed. "It's 10am. Time to get up."

"10am?" Lynda sat upright, startled. "Is it really?"

"Yup."

"God, that's disgusting. I can't remember ever being so lazy." Lynda rubbed her eyes and yawned.

"Forget it, boss. It's called jet lag - happens to the best of us. Now, hurry up and get dressed. I'm taking you to the beach."

He bounded out of the room and trotted downstairs to the kitchen. He had to hand it to the old man, he really had designed and built an awesome house. The kitchen was huge with all modern stainless steel appliances and lots of light. He busied himself making a California-style brunch for the two of them. He was just slicing the grapefruit in half when Lynda came clumping down the stairs.

"Mmm, that coffee smells good. Is it . . ." Lynda broke off as she noticed Spike staring at her agape. "What?"

"Didn't I say I was taking you to the beach?" Spike asked.

"Yes. So?" She looked down at herself. Faded grey t-shirt, blue knit cardigan, brown tweedy skirt, black tights and black boots. "Is there a problem?"

"Yes, Lynda, there is a problem. Haven't you ever been to a beach before?"

"Well, sure," replied Lynda. "I went to Cornwall in the fourth year."

"And?"

"And I was dressed perfectly appropriately. It rained the whole time."

"I see," Spike abandoned the grapefruit. There was a bigger crisis at hand. "Did you, by any chance, bring a pair of jeans or anything like that?"

"I did bring an old pair," said Lynda. "In case we had to do some gardening or painting or something."

"Go and put them on, please," said Spike, firmly.

"But Spike, they don't fit properly! They sit too low and . . ."

"Now!"

Lynda sighed and headed back up the stairs. Spike poured his coffee and briefly considered adding a shot of brandy. Who else would pack jeans for a romantic holiday in case they were suddenly called upon to paint or help out in the garden? Besides, this was LA. You got other people to do that kind of thing. Usually a guy called Pedro for cash.

"See? I look ridiculous."

Spike looked up. The jeans were definitely old and faded. But they sat nice and low and fit well at the top. Unfortunately the bottoms flared out quite tragically.

"Take them off," he said.

"See? I told . . ."

"Take them off and give them to me." He hunted around the kitchen drawers until he found what he was looking for.

"What, now?"

"Yes, now!"

"But I've only got on . . ."

Spike rolled his eyes. "Believe me, Lynda, your underwear leaves plenty to the imagination. What do you do, buy in bulk and save?"

Lynda blushed. "I've got new ones on today."

"What do you mean, new ones? Were Marks and Spencers having a Full Brief 6-pack sale?"

"Nooooo," Lynda squirmed. "It was Julie's idea. She took me to Agent Provacateur last week. And when I went through my suitcase just now, all my other . . . er, things aren't in there. I must have forgotten to put them in."

Spike surpressed a smirk as he remembered tossing out handfuls of Lynda's sensible pants and coming across the sexy sets buried deep beneath the cardigans.

"Well, come on, then," he said, finally. "Let's see 'em."

"I'm not parading my underwear for you, Spike!"

"If only. The jeans, Lynda. Hand me the jeans."

Lynda sighed and wriggled out of the offending trousers. When she stood up, Spike gaped.

"Right, that's it," he said. "Julie is selecting all of your underwear from now on. I'll even pay for it."

"Do you mind?" asked Lynda haughtily.

"Not at all," Spike replied. "Hey, what's that on the wall behind you?"

Lynda turned as predicted, affording Spike a wonderful view. "Just a print of the New York skyline. Why?"

"Oh, never mind," he grinned.

Lynda rolled her eyes and wrapped her cardigan around herself. "Just do what you have to do, will you?"

She tossed the jeans over to Spike who lay them on the kitchen bench. Wielding a sharp pair of scissors, he deftly cut the legs off just before the flare started, then rolled the cuffs up a couple of times.

"Try those."

Lynda pulled the jeans back on. They now ended in a cuff just below her knee and had been instantly transformed from woefully outdated to vintage chic.

"Not bad, Thompson," said Lynda. "Gourmet chef, fashion designer . . . should I be worried? Do you do hair as well?"

Spike grinned and snipped the air with his scissors. "Not yet, but I could give it a try!"

Lynda looked out of the huge picture windows at the front of the house. "I suppose with all this 'sunshine' as you call it, I could lose the cardigan."

"Preferably on a bus," agreed Spike.

With the removal of the offending outerwear, even the faded t-shirt looked like a deliberate fashion choice.

"What about shoes?" Lynda asked, looking down at her bare feet. "Even I can tell my boots won't go with this."

Spike scratched his head thoughtfully, then ran up the stairs, returning with a fairly battered pair of Converse Chuck Taylors.

"Try these," he said. "They might be a little big but will do until we can get to a mall."

"These are men's shoes!" protested Lynda.

"Nuh-uh. Unisex," said Spike. "Put them on." Lynda had given up arguing by now and did as she was told. Spike nodded.

"Not bad, Boss."

"I'm glad I meet with your approval," said Lynda dryly. "Now, how about some of that coffee?"


	16. Chapter 16

Colin had leapt to his feet after being called. Luckily he hadn't had a full-sized cup of coffee or the reception seats would have been reupholstered in cappucino. He knew exactly what he needed to do but somehow his body wasn't responding to the commands being urgently transmitted from his brain. If he could just take 10 steps forward, he would be out of the woods. Just 10 steps and the rushing, whirling madness that stayed with him pretty much permanently would disappear. 10 steps and he would be in control. 10 steps and he wouldn't need to worry about anything.

10 steps.

10 steps.

He forced one foot forward, inhaled deeply and took those 10 steps as quickly as possible.

Sandra smiled politely as she held the door open for him and Colin marched into the room beyond her, exhaling as he did so.

Snap.

Ah.

He'd reached it.

The Zone.

This is where he belonged. Everything inside him that had been wound up tighter than Lynda's grip on the office had relaxed, unclenched, uncramped. He was cool, loose, articulate, witty and inexplicably better-looking. It didn't matter if he made any kind of faux pas from here on in - silver tongue mode had been engaged and primed for action.

There was a small round table in the meeting room and two gentlemen were already seated at it.

"This is Bill Ward, one of the senior executive producers here," said Sandra, gesturing to a silver-haired man on her left.

"Bill!" Colin leaned over the table and shook the offered hand warmly. "Been in the game long?"

The other three exchanged glances.

"You might say that," said Sandra slowly. "Bill was with the BBC for their very first broadcast."

"Right!" beamed Colin, not daunted in the least. After all, he was in The Zone. "Well, nothing like experience, I always say."

"And this is Lewis Rudd," continued Sandra. "He's the Controller of Young People's Television at Central."

Colin played it safe this time with a nod, smile and a firm handshake to the man in glasses. "Good to meet you." He sat down in one of the empty chairs and helped himself to a glass of water before pulling out his notebook and a copy of the material he had forwarded. He was pleased to note that the other three meeting participants each had a copy of the treatment in front of them, marked up with highlighter and Post-It flags.

"I'll get straight to the point with you, Colin," said Sandra after she had sat down. "This treatment is - well, it's unbelievable."

"Really?" Colin asked, surprised. "It's based on a true story."

The others laughed. "No, I mean, it is believable as in realistic," said Sandra. "It's unbelievably good."

"We are very interested in developing "The Norbridge Files", Colin," said Lewis. "There's some top stuff here. Really good. The comedy aspect especially . . ."

"Comedy! Yes, well, the world loves a laugh!" agreed Colin, scratching out DOCU-DRAMA on his notes.

"But the everyday teen interaction works really well too. There's real life here - school, family, this "Junior Herald" project. The dialogue is fantastic. Sharp, witty . . . and we also have a dramatic aspect that is just intriguing."

"I thought you'd like it!" Colin wrote DRAMEDY firmly on his notepad.

"We believe, however, a few changes need to be made to make it more marketable," said Sandra. "Say for example - the relationship between these two - Mike Johnson and Lisa May. We feel this should be more of the focus of the program. While the current lead character, this -" she referred to her notes "- Kelvin Michaels, is quite entertaining, I think the young teen market will identify more strongly with the Mike/Lisa relationship. So we need to know more about how they started off, you know, the spark that gets their relationship happening."

"Mmhmm," Colin nodded and wrote S&L START - KENNY? on his notepad, underlining it a couple of times. "And the Kelvin character?"

"Still an important member of the core cast," said Bill. "Although we see him as - how shall I put this . . ."

"Comic relief," interjected Sandra, bluntly.

"That's right," agreed Lewis. "We'd like to see him as a bit of a wide-boy on the make, you know the sort, always getting in to some sort of trouble, totally fixated on the quick cash, ending up in quirky, amusing situations . . ."

Colin was again surprised but his normally hyper-expressive eyebrows remained still. In his mind, Mike was the comic relief. Kelvin was really more of a dashing leading man but he wasn't going to argue if it meant getting the series off the ground. He just nodded again and pencilled in INVENT AMUSING ANECDOTES.

"Along with - ah . . ." he looked down ". . . Sally Janson, Benny Philps, Judy Cray, Taddler and . . . is it Frizz?"

"Frizz. That's right," nodded Colin. "He insists."

"Well, it's good to see you have such a clear identification with your characters!" smiled Sandra.

"Oh, absolutely. They've become like friends to me," said Colin, winningly.

"And did you develop this treatment yourself?" asked Bill.

"Ah, no. I'm merely the creative consultant," replied Colin modestly. "I'm acting as an agent for a writer."

"What have they done? Anything we'd know?" Sandra asked.

"Not as such," said Colin cheerfully. "He's a young chap, you know, fresh, keen . . ." he paused for emphasis " . . . mouldable." He saw the shadows flicker across the faces of his audience.

"I'm not sure we could get backers for a writer with no experience," said Lewis doubtfully.

Colin was prepared for this and - being in The Zone - the answer came naturally. "I appreciate your concerns. Really, I do. Being in management, I know all about having to find the right people for the job and the best fit for the team. However." He had picked up that "however" method from Sullivan and used it to great effect. "The thing you have to remember here is this is a program about young people being given a fresh start. An opportunity, if you will. A foot in the door. A break. Couldn't we bring that message right through by taking a chance on a young unknown?"

There! That got them!

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to ask for a half-hour script," said Sandra, after exchanging glances with the other two. "Then make our decision from there."

"Fine! No problem!" Colin wrote HALF-HOUR SCRIPT!!! in urgent capital letters.

"How soon could you get it to us?" Lewis asked.

"Ermm . . . when do you need it by?" Colin replied cagily.

"Well, the sooner the better really."

"Friday okay?" Colin asked casually.

It was the turn of the others to look surprised.

"Well, if you could, that would be wonderful!" said Sandra. "But if you need more time . . ."

"Time? Time is money, I always say, so let's tighten our belts time-wise and get moving." Colin wrote ASAP!!! on his notepad, ringed it frantically and then stood. "Well, it's been a pleasure. Same time Friday?"

"Err, well . . ." All three picked up their PDAs and stabbed at them urgently with stylus pens.

"Suits me," said Lewis after a moment.

"Fine with me," said Bill.

"And it's good for me too," said Sandra. "Okay, Colin. We'll see you Friday."

"Brilliant," Colin shook hands all round and exited the room and - unfortunately for him - The Zone.

The same receptionist was still on the desk looking at him expectantly as he walked through the lobby.

"See you Friday," said Colin, tipping her a wink and heading towards the door.

"Wait!" she called.

Colin turned and grinned. "Can't wait until then, eh? Well, the offer for coffee is still open."

The receptionist smiled politely, a skill she had mastered from years of dealing with people like Colin.

"Can I have your visitor's badge back, please?"


	17. Chapter 17

Spike and Lynda had finished their California brunch, although not without incident.

"So, how are we getting to this beach?" Lynda asked as Spike rinsed grapefruit juice out of his eye. "Bus?"

Spike patted his eye dry and administered some eyedrops. "Buses in LA are for the fearless and mentally unstable. Come to think of it - maybe it's the perfect transportation for you." He blinked rapidly. "Ah, that's better. That juice really stung."

"It was an accident! I said I was sorry!" said Lynda, indignantly.

"Yes, you did," agreed Spike. "Although, that was after you exclaimed 'Woo-hoo! Look at it go!' and shrieked with laughter."

"I did not, nor have I ever said 'woo-hoo' or shrieked with laughter, thank you," said Lynda in distaste.

"Whatever," Spike fell easily back into Los Angelese. "Words to that effect."

After his eyesight had recovered sufficiently, they walked outside. Spike already had his sunglasses on and Lynda squinted at him in the unfailingly cheerful sunshine.

"I think I'm going to need a pair of those," she said. "It's so bright out here!"

"We'll pick up some on our travels," said Spike.

"Well, how are we getting there then?" asked Lynda again.

Spike fished out a keychain from his pocket and pressed a button on a small box attached. The garage door beside the house began rolling up. Lynda saw a sleek black SUV parked inside.

"Is that yours?" she asked, incredulously.

"Well, it was the old man's," said Spike. "He bought it just before he - you know. So yeah, it's mine."

"But you can't drive a car! You've never driven a car!" protested Lynda. "You don't have a licence!"

"Oh yeah?" Spike delivered a trademark smirk. Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a plastic card and handed it to her. Lynda read it disbelievingly.

"A Californian driver's licence! You never told me!"

Spike shrugged. "I took my test when I was living back here and had my Dad's address put on it. How else was I going to pick up - uh, I mean - get around town?"

"I'm sure you would have managed both," said Lynda dryly and continued to read the licence before bursting out laughing. "You are not 5 foot 9!"

"Hey, the Californian DMV never lies," said Spike, snatching it back hastily. "Shall we get going?"

"I suppose so," said Lynda and headed for the right-hand door of the vehicle.

"I'm afraid you'll need a licence yourself if you want to sit in that seat," Spike said. "We drive on the right over here, remember?"

"Of course," said Lynda. "I was just looking."

"At the steering wheel?" joked Spike, unlocking the car.

"Just drive the stupid car, Thomson," said Lynda, getting into the passenger side and shutting the door with a bang.

Spike touched the brim of an invisible hat. "You got it, ma'am."

"And don't call me ma'am. I hate it when you do that."

"Sorry . . . madam!"

"Worse!"

"Lady?"

"Impertinent!"

"How about Pumpkin? Honeybunch? Sweetie Pie? Snookums?" He turned the key, the engine came to life, the dashboard lit up and the and radio came on.

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Don't make me spoil the new-car smell by being violently ill in here."

"Urrgggh!" Spike made a disgusted face.

"What? I was only joking. You know how I feel about vomiting in front of people."

"No, not that!" Spike jabbed at the tuner button and changed the channel of the radio quickly. "I can't stand Supertramp. Dad always was a sucker for easy listening."

They pulled out of the driveway of the townhouse on 4th Street and continued along before turning right onto the famous Santa Monica Boulevarde. Not that Lynda had ever heard of it, of course. Within minutes, they were pulling into the Beachfront car park off Ocean Avenue.

"That took no time at all!" said Lynda in amazement. "Why didn't we walk?"

"Nobody walks here," replied Spike. "Have I not mentioned that?"

"Maybe. I probably wasn't listening." Lynda shrugged and surveyed the scene in front of her. "Well, this is quite nice. Can we go on that ferris wheel at the end of the pier?"

"Yes, we can," said Spike, taking her hand as they walked towards the boardwalk.

"And the merry-go-round?"

"Carousel. Absolutely."

"And can I have candy floss?"

"Cotton candy. No. It rots your teeth."

"Will you win me a teddy bear?"

"With these guns? Are you kidding? With my eyes shut! I was MVP in my baseball team at school, two years running."

Unfortunately, Spike's attempts at knocking over bottles with a baseball - even with both eyes open - netted only a novelty comb and a plastic sun visor. Lynda scoffed at the pitiful offerings and handed over two dollars to the greasy carnie running the stall. Spike laughed.

"Hey, Lynda, you know these games are all rigged, right? I mean, I told you I had played baseball before, and look how lousy I did." Lynda ignored him.

"If you want something done properly . . ." she said, winding up for the pitch ". . . do it yourself."

Her ball smashed perfectly into the centre of the bottle stack, sending all of them tumbling.

"A big winner!" said the carnie in a bored voice. "What'll it be, sweets?"

"I don't care, just make it big," replied Lynda, winking at Spike. The carnie shrugged, uninterested, and pulled a gigantic Kermit the Frog from a hook on the wall.

"There you go, sweets. Enjoy."

"Oh, I will," said Lynda, giving Spike a meaningful look.

Spike groaned inwardly. He would never live this down. And that damn frog would be propped up in the most conspicious place possible at any given moment for the rest of his life.

They walked back down the boardwalk, Lynda clutching her giant Kermit smugly. She opened her mouth but Spike cut her off.

"Don't. Say. A. Word."

"I'm sure it was beginner's luck," said Lynda breezily. 'I've never thrown a baseball in my life."

Spike's back teeth felt like they were being ground to chalk.

"So where are your . . . prizes?" Lynda asked innocently.

"I, uh, must have left them back there," said Spike, who had actually stuffed them in the nearest trash can while Lynda visited the Ladies.

"Oh, what a shame. Never mind. We can share Kermit. Even though I won him." Lynda was clearly enjoying every single second of this.

"You are one bad winner, Lynda Day," said Spike.

"There's no such thing," smirked Lynda, patting Kermit fondly on the head.


	18. Chapter 18

Kenny closed the door to his office for a little privacy and settled himself at his desk. Whistling cheerfully in the manner Lynda especially detested, he punched in a telephone number and listened to the ringing at the other end.

"Hello?"

"Kelly?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must have a wrong number!"

The Irish voice on the other end laughed. "Hello, you."

"Hello yourself," replied Kenny. "How's Dublin today?"

"Miserable! Raining buckets. It's days like these I miss Adelaide something fierce."

"I know how you feel. I'm missing something myself," grinned Kenny.

"Ahhh, well, not for much longer, I'm happy to tell you," said Kelly. "Me Mam's made a full recovery and I'll be in London soon."

"Brilliant! When?" Kenny reached for a pen.

At that point, Cyclone Colin burst into his office with wind gusts of up to 80 miles an hour and bearing down on him rapidly.

Kenny sighed. "Can I call you back?"

"You've got my number," said Kelly. "Bye now."

Kenny hung up - which he always felt slightly anxious about doing with Kelly, in case it took another few years to find her - and looked at Colin. "This had want to be good, Colin."

"It's good. It's great," Colin sat himself down in the chair opposite and pulled out his notebook. "Now. Spike and Lynda. You know them, right?"

"Vaguely. Didn't we go to school with them or something?" asked Kenny wryly. Colin missed the sarcasm and continued unabashed.

"How did they meet?"

"What?"

"How did they meet? Where did it all start?"

"What are you on about, Colin?" A thought crossed his mind and he looked suspiciously at Colin's briefcase which had been flung carelessly onto his desk.

"Are you filming me for Lynda? Is she doing another one of those friendship pop quiz things?"

"What? No, no. It's ahh, for a story."

"Colin, I specifically remember Lynda telling you that running a story featuring her and Spike in the same paragraph while they were away would result in death by castration."

"No, not for the magazine. It's for a book actually."

"You're writing a book?"

"It's an autobiography," said Colin. "The Rise and Rise of Colin Matthews. And Spike and Lynda - and even yourself, Kenny - are all part of that story. Very important, treasured parts. So I need to know how they got together."

Coming from Colin, this sounded entirely plausible.

"If they are so important and treasured," said Kenny, enjoying winding Colin up, "how come you don't know already?"

"I do know, but I need it from the very start. Page One, if you will."

"Well, you were there."

"No, I wasn't! I was out on the streets, selling advertising. That's why I need your perspective. Exact words, if you can."

Kenny laughed. "All right, Colin, I'll do my best."

"Brilliant!" Colin uncapped his pen and poised it to paper.

"Spike had been volunteered for the Junior Gazette by Sullivan. It was basically his last chance or get chucked out of school. Especially after what happened at the school dance."

Colin chuckled. "I'd forgotten that. School dance. Great."

"He showed up a day late, full of attitude. I remember meeting him at the door. I knew who he was but we'd never spoken. I think I upset him because I called him James right off the bat."

"Well, I'd be upset too if you confused me with someone else," said Colin, scribbling randomly.

Kenny paused. "Colin, you do know Spike's real name is James, don't you?"

"Of course I do," replied Colin, writing SPIKE JAMES?? on his pad.

"Anyway, he swaggers in behind me as I'm telling him about the place. I get distracted by Jeff or Fred or someone and he wanders off and has a chat to Frazz. Finally I finally come back and give him the induction form to fill out. That's when he stops me and tells me precisely what he intends to do at the Junior Gazette - which doesn't amount to much apart from the occasional violent threat - and instructs me to take the induction form and 'cut it into little squares for my toilet'."

Colin nodded and continued writing feverishly. "Toilet. Got it."

"Then, enter Lynda, stage left."

"And she lets him have it?"

Kenny laughed. "She doesn't even notice him. She's too busy issuing instructions to me. One of them being, if I recall correctly, 'to get something done about the sign outside'. But he notices her. He grabs the induction form back off me and slides over to her desk. He's using all his smooth moves but she's completely oblivious. So finally he has to actually speak to her to get her attention."

"Can you remember what was said?" Colin asked urgently. "I need to get this right."

Kenny thought. "He told her he was having trouble filling out the form and asked for her help. She asked what his problem was and he told her that some of the questions were kind of difficult. She wanted to know what questions so he looked at the first one and said 'Name'." He chuckled and shook his head. "It was so obvious he wanted her to ask what his name was but she didn't give him the satisfaction. She just lined him up and blew him away with 'Well, I've a suggestion. Get your mother to write it on the back of your hand every morning.' "

"Mother. Hand. Morning," muttered Colin.

"So they're back and forth for a while. Finally he tells her his name himself and recognition dawns on Lynda. She's unimpressed by his reputation and even less impressed that Sullivan has dumped yet another KD on us. That's when Spike pulls out the big guns. He squats down by Lynda, takes off his sunglasses and asks if he can tell her something. She doesn't tell him to go into a corner and die painfully so he takes that as a yes. Then he says something like, 'This might be kind of embarrassing, coming from a guy you just met and everything but I really think you should know. Say this was like the olden days. Like, thousands and thousands of years ago? I'd kill a dragon for you'."

"What?" Colin looked up from his writing, confused.

"That's what Lynda said. 'No really, I would,' says Spike. 'I'd get right out there and I'd kill one.' Then he goes in for the kill - pun intended. 'In fact, I'll make you an offer. If you'll go out with me sometime this week, I'll make a definite commitment to kill the first dragon that I see.' "

"And did he?"

"Yes, Colin. It so happened there was one in the canal behind the newsroom so he stabbed it with a letter opener and he and Lynda had dinner that night at Czars. What do you think??"

"Sorry," muttered Colin. "Go on."

"Well, that's where it began. Lynda asked if he was out of his head but doesn't actually bite it off for him. Then Matt Kerr wanted to see her so she was off. Spike decides the way to Lynda's heart is to toe the Junior Gazette line and find her a story. He lands that front page about the arsonists and the rest is history."

"Great, brilliant, fantastic," said Colin. "Perfect. Now, while we're talking over old times, can you think of anything amusing I might have done?"

"Amusing? You?" asked Kenny incredulously.

"I know, I'm stuck too," moaned Colin.

"How about the time you got stuck in a pink rabbit suit for one?" asked Kenny, trying to suppress a smirk.

"That wasn't funny. That was traumatic," replied Colin.

"What about when you were representing that escape artist who couldn't escape and you had to bring him back here and hack him out of a box?" Kenny had started laughing properly now.

"Humiliating!"

"Or the time you sold defective half ping pong balls to every kid and staff member at Norbridge High?"

"Genius!"

"No, Colin," said Kenny patiently. "Amusing."

Colin's eyebrows had a rendezvous with his hairline. "All that stuff is funny?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," replied Kenny solemnly.

Colin sat back in his chair and tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Huh. I might have to conduct some more interviews."

* * *

"Have you got the one about the rabbit suit?" asked Julie, blowing her nose loudly. She was really still too ill to be at work, but the thought of a Lynda-free work zone was enough to drag her out of bed in the mornings.

"Yes," said Colin impatiently. He had already asked Cindy and Toni and that was the first thing they had mentioned too. "You do one nice thing for your sister's birthday and no-one ever lets you forget it!"

"Well, you did crash a funeral in it. Not to mention made me think someone had spiked my Coke with LSD when you called out to me on the street."

Colin ignored that. "What else?" Julie thought.

"Well, apart from that disastrous date where you annihilated my pets, what about the time you got stuck in John Hartwood's hotel room?"

Colin thought back and chuckled. "Actually, that was rather comical. He honestly believed he was seeing things at the end there. Measuring windows! Good thing I had Judy to back me up."

"Whatever happened to her?" Julie asked. "She was the only person who ever showed any - I mean, she seemed to really understand you."

"Oh, she's married," said Colin cheerfully.

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. A couple of times, now. I've been to all the weddings, you know. She always invites me."

"She does?" Julie was surprised.

"Yeah. And the funny thing is, when they get to the bit about 'speak now or forever hold your peace', she always gives me a funny look. She even mouthed at me the last time, but I couldn't make out what she was saying."

Julie rolled her eyes. "Isn't it obvious? She wants you to stop the wedding!"

"Why would she want me to do that? I mean, everything's paid for at that stage! Think of the money you'd lose at the reception! No-one can eat that much seafood cocktail on their own."

"Colin, you really are thick. She wants you. She wants you to chase her and you won't, so she wants you even more. She's marrying these guys hoping you'll step in and save her at the last minute and you don't, so she marries someone else!"

"You really think so?"

"Blind Freddy could see it," said Julie.

"Blind Jake, you mean. And what does he have to do with this?"

"Shut up. So why don't you go for it?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Colin asked.

"No."

"She's a complete, raving nutter! Absolutely off her tree. Bonkers."

"Colin," said Julie, seriously. "Do you really think you can afford to be picky?"

"There's someone out there for me," said Colin haughtily. "I don't need to lower my standards to people who require rubber rooms."

"Oh, that reminds me! Have you got the one about those sucker things?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Stop smirking."

"I'm not smirking!"

"You are."

"How do you know? You should have your eyes on the road."

"I can feel it radiating from you in waves."

"It's just a stuffed toy, Spike. Stop overreacting."

"Overreacting? To you propping it up in the back with a seatbelt on?" He glanced in the rear-vision mirror at the Kermit of Smugness, securely belted into the back seat.

"Well, what if you had to brake suddenly? It would have flown right into the back of our heads."

"I'm sure securing the load was precisely what you had in mind at the time," replied Spike sarcastically. "I'm glad you have such high regard for inter-vehicular safety."

"You know safety is important to me," replied Lynda. "Well, ever since the fire, anyway."

"That's true," allowed Spike grudgingly. Lynda had instigated a strong safety culture at the Phoenix and even appointed an Occupational Health and Safety officer. "Anyway, aside from that, I have a surprise for you."

"I thought we were going shopping?" Lynda asked.

"We are. I've called in reinforcements," replied Spike mysteriously.

"What?"

"It's too big a job for one man to handle alone," said Spike. He pulled into the large car park of a bright shopping mall and slotted the SUV between two equally monstrous cars. Lynda got out of the passenger side and peered through the dark tint of the back windows.

"Do you think Kermit will be okay in there by himself? Shall I crack the window open a little bit?"

"Shut up and start walking."

They trekked across the acres of asphalt until they reached the cool air-conditioned bliss of the atrium inside Santa Monica Place.

"Well, this looks promising," said Lynda, surveying the brightly lit shops that lined the perimeter. "But what did you mean by reinforcements? You haven't got those two horrible women from that television programme coming, have you? Julie is always threatening me with that."

Spike laughed. "Not quite that daunting. In fact, here she comes."

Lynda looked to where Spike was pointing. A tanned blonde girl was coming towards them with a perfectly white smile.

"Spike!" She threw her arms around his neck and Spike hugged back with equal enthusiasm. Lynda's eyes narrowed to slits almost audibly, like steel doors slamming down.

"And you must be Lynda!" An equally enthusiastic hug before the blonde drew back. "I'm sorry. I know you're not into that kind of thing but I couldn't help myself. It's so great to finally meet you." She stepped back and looked at Lynda. "God, I wish I had your complexion. That English rose look is so hot right now. But I'm a beach bunny and I guess I always will be." She laughed. "But I'm rambling, aren't I! Just tell me to shut up!"

"Shut up," said Spike, fondly and punched her on the arm.

"You shut up!" replied the blonde, punching back.

"Lynda, this is the surprise," said Spike. "This is Melanie."

"Spike, how many times do I have to tell you? It's not going to happen and it never will, no matter how hot the other girl is."

Both Spike and Melanie burst out laughing.

"I told you," said Spike, wiping his eyes.

"As if!" Melanie agreed. "Gag me!"

When Spike had sufficiently recovered, he said formally. "Lynda, Melanie is another cousin of mine."

"Hi!" Melanie waved.

"Oh, right!" Lynda said. She looked hard at Melanie. "Actually, I can sort of see a resemblance. Same eyes, same lips."

Melanie laughed again. "Well, I get a bit of help with the lips. Spike got his from his Dad, I get mine from Dr Lowenstein down at the Rejuvenation Clinic!"

Spike frowned. "You let people inject your face?"

"Oh come on, Spike, you're my big cousin, not my big brother. Anyway, enough about me. We're here for Lynda. I'm so excited! I love a makeover!"

"Makeover?" asked Lynda. "I don't know about that. I just need some basic summer things, a pair of shoes, maybe some sunglasses. That's all, really."

Spike took Lynda's hands. "Lynda, can you do me a favour? Something that would make me really really happy?"

Lynda looked wary. "It doesn't involve that chocolate sauce again, does it? You still haven't bought me replacement sheets."

Melanie burst out laughing and Spike blushed slightly. "No, it's not that. All I want you to do is spend my money. Okay?"

"Spend your money?" Lynda repeated, then nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose I could do that."

"There is a catch though," continued Spike. "You only buy what Melanie approves or suggests - including any beauty or therapeutic treatment."

Lynda looked faintly anxious. "I'm not having my face injected!"

"With skin like that? Are you serious?" Melanie grabbed her hand. "Come on, let's go spend this man's money. Pain-free. Well, maybe some light waxing, but that's it."

"Call me when you're done," said Spike, grinning.

"Wait, you're not coming?" Lynda asked, panicked.

"Nope. You know I like surprises," replied Spike.

"I'll have her looking her super fabulous best in a couple of hours," promised Melanie. "Then you can take her to Maxie's for dinner."

"Maxie's? Nah, I don't know. Maybe somewhere else."

"What are you talking about? You love Maxie's. You go there every time you visit because you say no-one else does ribs like they do."

"Uhh, yeah . . . I just don't think Lynda would like it," said Spike.

"Are you kidding? What's not to like?" Melanie turned to Lynda. "They have the best food there. You like eating, right? You don't look like a lettuce-leafer to me."

"As long as it's not chopsticks, I'm fine," agreed Lynda. "It sounds nice. I'd like to go."

"It's a Friday. They're probably fully booked." Spike said, apologetically.

Melanie rolled her eyes and pulled her diamante-studded cell phone from what was obviously an expensive handbag. "I'll book you in. I know the manager." She pressed a few buttons and spoke into the receiver. "Hi, Jacinta? It's Mel! I know! Me too! Seriously?? Get out! Hey listen, can you squeeze my cousin and his fiance in tonight? Awesome. Seven? Perfect. Yeah, Thompson. Thanks! I know. I owe you a margarita. Okay, gotta fly. Bye!" She snapped the phone shut. "All done," she announced. "Now, come on, Spike. Hand over the cash."

Spike surrendered a wad of bills to his cousin. "What are my chances of seeing some change?"

"Slim to none," replied Melanie cheerfully. "Come on, Lynda."

Lynda looked as though she was being led to the gallows rather than a shopping spree as Spike waved them off before getting stuck into some retail therapy himself. First, a haircut. Then a coffee and a snack. A quick peruse through Leather Expo to check out the jackets, then a lengthy and thorough mission through All Pro Sports before wandering down to Macy's. A couple of t-shirts, a bottle of cologne, some cargos and a new belt later, he was just tossing up between two pairs of vintage jeans when his cell rang.

"We're all done!" announced Melanie when he answered.

"Already? That was quick. Don't tell me. Lynda has barricaded herself in a changing room. Just tell bad jokes at the door until she lets you in."

"What do you mean? We've had three hours. And she's been great. Wait til you see her, you'll be blown away."

"Three hours?" Spike checked his watch and then looked down at the bags at his feet. "I guess time flies when you're blowing cash. Okay, I'll meet you at the food court in ten."

Spike gathered his purchases up and hotfooted it to the food court. He trusted Melanie to shop for Lynda but whether Lynda did was another matter. Taking a seat at an empty table, he drummed his fingers excitedly on the table top, craning his neck for a glimpse of the two girls.

"Do you mind if we join you?" asked a high-pitched voice from behind him. Spike gave a cursory glance back over his shoulder. Nice hair, awesome figure but this barely registered as he turned back around.

"Sorry, I'm waiting for someone."

"Well, I hope it's me," said Lynda in her own voice. Spike snapped his head back around.

"Lynda!"

"I think so. I'm not 100 percent sure though."

"You look . . . Wow!"

"I told you, didn't I!" said Melanie, pleased with the reaction. Spike stood and looked at Lynda the way a junk-food addict eyes off a Big Mac.

"No, I mean, seriously. Aaaooow! God! I can't even . . . Phew!"

"Hell, I think he's going to hyperventilate. I've got a paper bag in here somewhere," Melanie began rummaging in her bag.

"Or I could just slap him," grinned Lynda.

"I don't know how much you spent, but it was worth every cent," said Spike, finally managing to construct a full sentence. He took it all in. Lynda's wild curls had been straightened and her hair fell in glossy sheets to halfway down her back. Make-up had been artfully applied without looking caked-on. She was wearing a simple blue tank top with a scattering of sparkles, a pair of black distressed straight leg jeans and some cute ballet flats. Even better than that, Spike spotted a Victoria's Secret bag amongst the large bunch Melanie was holding.

"You really like it?" asked Lynda.

"I do. Really. I really do," Spike lapsed back into gabbling.

Melanie glanced at her watch. "Well guys, I'm going to have to love you and leave you. Have a great dinner tonight!" She handed the bags over to Lynda.

Spike hugged her fiercely. "Thank. You. So. Much."

"My pleasure," squeaked Melanie.

Lynda dropped the bags and hugged her as well and then looked surprised at herself. "I don't usually do that. It must have been the gas."

"You can't beat pure oxygen," agreed Melanie and headed off.

They walked out into the afternoon sun and hiked back across the car park to where the SUV was parked. Spike had deliberately dropped behind a couple of times to admire the view from the rear but there were only so many times he could pretend to be re-tying his shoelace.

Especially as the shoes he was wearing didn't have laces.


	20. Chapter 20

Colin was slumped dejectedly in his office as Sophie and Laura chattered away with their gleeful recollections.

"What about the time you had us dress up like creatures from outer space? You never did tell us what all that was about," said Sophie. "Were you trying to pull off some sort of War of The Worlds hoax on the unsuspecting citizens of Norbridge?"

"We were probably free background extras in a dodgy student film," said Laura. "Why didn't you ever make a film clip for Kenny? We would have loved to have been in one!"

You were, thought Colin, remembering the live footage he had tried to flog off to Top of The Pops.

"And remember when you got us to get that book Lynda wrote in Infants from Sullivan and Lynda had already switched it on you? And as you were reading it out, it said she was going to cut off your - "

"Oh yeah! It was called . . ."

"The Fluffy-Wuffies and the Silly-Billies!" they chorused together before giggling.

Colin made a half-hearted notation in his notebook. "Fluffy-Wuffies. Got it."

"What's the matter?" Laura asked.

Colin sighed and sunk lower into his chair.

"Nothing."

Sophie and Laura exchanged glances.

"What is it, Colin?" Sophie prodded. "Come on, you can tell us. What's the problem?"

Colin sighed again. "The problem is that I am the Comic Relief in my own life! The jester of my own court! The - the - the - Mr Bean of my own . . . oh, I don't know. I can't even think of anything funny! Talk about ironic!"

Sophie and Laura allowed him to enjoy a few more martyred minutes of his drama queen solo.

"Colin," Laura said gently. "What about the good things you've done?"

"Like what?" Colin's voice was muffled by the desk he was resting his face on.

"Well, how about Cindy for a start? What you did for her? How you not only helped put together of the best-ever editions of the Junior Gazette but also helped her talk to someone about her Dad and maybe helped some other kids as well?"

Colin lifted his head from the desk. He had a green Post-It note stuck in his hair but the girls thought it best not to mention it at that point. "Yeah. I did, didn't I?"

"You did. There's nothing funny about that."

"And don't forget during the gun seige," reminded Sophie. "Colin, you risked your life! You went back into the newsroom when you knew Donald Cooper had a gun. You negotiated with him, saved your friends, saved the day and you got an award from the police!"

"I also got shot for my troubles," said Colin, rubbing the site of the bullet wound, absently.

"Which has given you a permanent Get Out Of Jail Free card with Lynda, Kenny, Sarah, Frazz and Spike and you know it!"

Colin grinned in spite of himself. "I suppose it has come in useful from time to time."

"And what about when you saved the paper itself?" asked Laura. "When Spike and Lynda were on the telly slapping each other? You were the only one who could have made that work to our advantage and look what you did for the circulation and sales figures! People still write in about that - and it was on 'TV's Best Ever Brain Snaps' the other night - with your 'Spike and Lynda - You Can Tell It's Love!' headline."

"Was it?" Colin asked with interest. "So you think people still want to hear about that kind of thing?"

"Absolutely," said Sophie.

"Definitely," agreed Laura.

Colin tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Well. Thanks, girls, you've been really helpful."

"You used to give us fivers for helping," said Sophie, hopefully.

"I did, didn't I?" mused Colin. "What a poor business decision. I should have paid you in stock. How do you fancy an Apella iPoc each?"

Sophie laughed. "No, thanks. But if you've got any of that knock-off Hugo Boss left, we'll take a bottle. Lynda has run out of air freshener in the bathroom."

The girls left with two bottles each and Colin placed a call to his contact.

"Ladybird, ladybird," he said when the voice answered at the other end.

"Fly away home," came the reply. "So how did you go with that stuff?"

"They loved it," said Colin. "They have a few suggestions about some changes . . ."

"Fine, no problem. I can do that. Whatever they want," said the voice eagerly.

"They want a half-hour script."

"Great! A pilot!"

"Ah, no, I think we'll stick with the existing characters on the paper," Colin still wasn't quite up to speed with television jargon yet. "But keep tossing those ideas around, that's great."

"You still want me for the job, right? Not going to dump me for a more experienced writer, are you?" A faint tinge of anxiety had crept into the Scottish accent.

"No, you've got the gig," reassured Colin. "It's sort of a trial, I suppose. They were wary about taking on a newcomer but I talked them into giving you a chance!"

"Colin, I really appreciate this. When can we get together and go through the changes?

"Hmm," said Colin. "How's now for you?"

"Now? Well, I'm kind of . . . how soon do they want the pilot?"

Colin coughed. "Friday," he mumbled.

"Did you say Friday?"

"Friday. That's right," replied Colin briskly. "Won't be a problem, will it? I've got loads more material. Quotes and everything."

"But it's already Wednesday!"

"Is it? Colin asked. "Oh, well, then you've got plenty of time. I thought it was Thursday."

"But, I . . ."

"Look, if you can't do it, no problem," said Colin easily. "I'll just assign it to one of the other writers on my books."

"No, no! I'll do it. I'll do it."

"That's the spirit, kid. I'll meet you at Czar's in twenty." Colin snapped his phone shut and gathered up his pages of handwritten notes. Nipping out of the back door to avoid distraction, he slipped into Czar's to their usual booth.

Dispensing with the usual preliminaries, his contact dropped in opposite him looking anxious.

"Let's have a look at your notes then," he said. Colin slid them over and he read through them, occasionally running a finger through his tangly hair. "Hmm. Hmmm. Yes. Good. There's definitely plenty to go on here. I think I can do this." He pulled out a notepad of his own and began jotting things down briskly.

"So you're okay with the changes? The focus on the Mike Johnson and Lisa May relationship and Kelvin Michaels as the . . ." Colin cringed ". . . comic relief?"

"Much better," agreed his contact. "I like Kelvin. I think I can have fun with him, you know, getting him into all sorts of mad stunts and gaffes."

"Brilliant. I mean, it's all fictional, isn't it, so we can be as mad as we like. I've – err – compiled a list of possible situations there . . ."

The contact read through some of them and burst out laughing. "Priceless! Colin, you should be writing yourself. What an imagination!"

"Yes, well, I'll let you get on, shall I?" Colin slid out of the booth.

"Yes, fine," said his contact distractedly, before looking up. "Oh, Colin?"

"Yeah?"

"Why have you got a Post-It in your hair?"


	21. Chapter 21

Spike and Lynda arrived back at the townhouse, narrowly avoiding several minor collisions as Spike kept sneaking glances at Lynda instead of paying attention to the traffic.

"You really like it that much?" she asked, smoothing her hair self-consciously.

"It's beautiful," said Spike truthfully. "I mean, I love those crazy curls of yours, don't get me wrong. This is just so different. It really suits you."

"Well, don't get too attached," said Lynda. "This is a fairly high-maintenance look, the minute it gets wet, it will boing back into curls. I mean, honestly, can you see me spending hours in front of the mirror with a straightening iron every morning?"

"Lynda, I'm impressed! You even know the name of the tool!"

"Well, Melanie's a good teacher," said Lynda, reaching into one of the bags and pulling out a box containing a straightening iron. "Hopefully I'll master the art for special occasions!"

"You got on well with her, didn't you?" Spike mused. "I wasn't sure if you would. You don't usually play nicely with others."

"Well, she's like a female version of you," said Lynda. "Only not quite as pretty."

Spike grinned and checked his watch. "Speaking of pretty, we had better get dressed for dinner." He watched as Lynda began gathering up her carrier bags. "Do you need some help?"

"Carrying my bags or getting dressed?"

Spike winked suggestively. "Both."

"The bags, yes. As for the getting dressed . . ." Lynda pulled out her notebook and tapped it proudly. "I took notes!"

Spike looked disappointed. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Damn," Spike snapped his fingers. "Well, I guess I'll get ready on my own then."

"I guess you will," replied Lynda, slipping into the bedroom and shutting the door.

Half an hour passed. Surely it didn't take this long to change outfits when everything else was already done? Finally, Spike went upstairs and tapped on the door. "Hey, Lynda, come on, we've got to get moving."

"Yes, okay! I'm just . . ." Lynda sounded frazzled. Spike pushed open the door and burst out laughing. There was Lynda, in a gorgeous smoky-grey cross-over dress, hunched in front of a line of shoes, rifling anxiously through her notes. "I can't seem to find . . ."

Spike plucked the notebook from her hands and tossed it onto the bed before leaning over, selecting a pair of black t-bar heels and handing them to Lynda who looked relieved.

"I was going to go with these," she said as she buckled them onto her feet.

"Sure you were. Anyway, you did pretty good to get that far."

"You don't look completely revolting either," said Lynda.

"You're too kind. Let's go."

They arrived at Maxie's early. It was a place favoured by locals, with unpretentious décor and a good menu. It was also already quite full. Jacinta, the manager, informed them their table wasn't yet ready, and would they like to have a drink at the bar while they were waiting?

"Order something for me, would you, please?" Lynda asked. "I've just got to go to the ladies."

"What do you want?" Spike called after her.

"Surprise me!" she called back over her shoulder. Spike noticed other men in the restaurant turning and staring at her as she crossed the room. He already knew she was beautiful. Now everyone else was seeing it as well.

"Can I help you?" asked the bartender.

"Yeah. Scotch on the rocks and a margarita," Spike replied, looking around. The bar area was more or less empty, with most patrons seated at their tables. There was an overdressed woman with her back to him trying very hard to hold the interest of a businessman she had ensnared while he was trying to buy a drink. He was politely trying to make his escape without success.

Spike thought it only right to try and help a brother out.

"Hey buddy!" he called. "You're wanted back at your table. There's an argument over who ordered the oysters."

"Huh? Oh! Thanks, pal," said the businessman gratefully. "Excuse me, please," he said to the woman.

"Hurry back now," she said, flirtaciously and giggled.

"Scotch on the rocks and a margarita," said the bartender, placing the drinks in front of Spike.

"I got this one," said the businessman, plunking a couple of bills on the bar and then muttering to Spike. "Dude, you're a lifesaver. Thanks again."

"No problem," said Spike, grinning.

The woman who had her flirt session rudely terminated swivelled on her stool, presumably about to complain about the interruption, when her lavishly-painted mouth dropped open and her heavily lined eyes widened in surprise.

"Spike!"

"Zoe!"

"What are you doing here? I thought you were back in England?"

"I am. I mean, not now, obviously, but I am living there. Just visiting home, you know."

Zoe looked at the two drinks on the bar and then around the room. "Who are you here with? Melanie?"

"Uhh, my fiance, actually," said Spike, truthfully. What was keeping Lynda so long in the bathroom?

(In actual fact, she was agonising over which lip gloss to use and ended up getting advice from the woman who came out of the stall after her.)

Zoe again looked surprised and a little hurt. "You're getting married. You? We were together for ages and you never even mentioned it. How long have you been with her?"

"Uhhh, a while," said Spike. "Who would have thought, right?" At last, he spotted Lynda making her way back to the bar. "Ah, here she is!"

Zoe looked. "Oh, thank God. For a minute there, I was afraid you were going to tell me you were marrying that heinous bitch, Lynda Day."

"It's nice to see you too, Zoe," said Lynda coolly, joining them in time to hear this comment. "You're looking . . . accessorised."

Zoe gaped again. "Lynda?"

"The heinous bitch herself," agreed Lynda, picking up the margarita with her left hand. Zoe caught a glimpse of the sparkling diamond on her finger – which was precisely Lynda's intention.

"Well, it's been great seeing you again, Zoe," said Spike, a little too heartily. "But I think our table's ready. Come on, Lynda."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to join us?" asked Lynda. "We could catch up on all the news and fill you in on all the details about the wedding and everything. Oh, and you must give us your address so we can send you an invitation!"

Zoe turned green under her heavy make-up. "No, thank you. I had a macrobiotic salad before I came."

"Oh. Shame. Come on, then, Spike, I'm starving. I could murder some of those ribs you were talking about. Bye, Zoe!"

They made their way into the restaurant area. Their table actually was ready and they were seated in a cozy booth for two.

"So this is why you didn't want to bring me here," said Lynda. "You used to come here with Zoe."

"Bingo," said Spike. "And you are one cruel woman, Lynda Day."

Lynda was silent for a moment.

"Remember when we got joined at the hands?"

"How could I forget?" Spike said dryly, slicing into his bread roll.

"And remember when we were back at the newsroom, waiting in the meeting room for Maringo to come back and sort us out and Zoe was there with us, crying."

"Again, pretty hard not to remember," said Spike, buttering his bread.

"When he told us why we were stuck together, I was so sure you'd keep hanging on, I felt sorry for her," said Lynda. "I thought, 'I've already stuck that tape of her soon-to-be-ex boyfriend calling her a bimbo in her Walkman as a bitchy little joke and now she's going to walk out of here alone and hear that and be even more devastated'."

"You thought that?" Spike put his roll down and looked hard at Lynda. "You never told me."

"The thing is, you did let go," continued Lynda. "And she was so happy and I felt even worse. But then, as she was walking out with her arms wrapped around you, she gave me this Look. A smug little sideways glance. Like she'd won. Like she didn't care you'd spent the entire afternoon clinging onto another woman for whatever reason, she'd take it. And then I was glad, Spike. Glad. I couldn't wait for her to listen to that tape. Whatever it took. Because being stuck together made me realise how much I had to hold onto you."

She glanced over at the bar where Zoe appeared to be in the process of consuming tequila shots.

"And now I feel sorry for her again. Even though I was just really cruel to her, I still feel sorry for her."

"First the new look and now this. Who are you and what have you done with the real Lynda?" Spike joked feebly.

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Get some new material, Thomson. And can we order? I wasn't kidding about those ribs. That drink was quite tasty too. I'll have another."

Their meals were generously sized and as good as promised. Spike and Lynda were just finishing their pistachio ice cream when they heard a commotion at the bar.

"I have not had enough! I know when I've had enough, and it's not yet!" shrieked the female voice.

"Come on, Zoe, time to go," said the bartender, not unkindly. "Don't make me get Roy in here again to drag you out. It upsets the other customers."

"Fine!" yelled Zoe. "That's FINE. I'll find somewhere else to take my money and maybe there'll be some decent MEN there because there aren't any in HERE!"

"Honey, this is LA. Men here are like public restrooms, either full of crap or engaged," said a spiky-haired redhead at the bar.

"Or gay," added her brunette friend, helpfully.

Zoe ignored them both, wheeled around and pointed towards Spike and Lynda. "I'm going somewhere where there aren't crazy psycho bitches like HER inside!"

"What, is she looking into a mirror or something?" murmured one of the other patrons close-by.

"Get her out of here, Roy," said the bartender resignedly. "Sorry, Zoe. Don't come back for a while, okay?"

Zoe looked as haughty as it was possible to do when you were being manhandled out of a venue by a gigantic bald black man. "I won't if THAT'S the kind of person you let in." She pointed her unsteady hand again at Lynda. "She's evil. She's the devil. She put a spell on my boyfriend and he wouldn't let go of her hand! And . . . and she's ENGLISH!!"

"Go back to rehab, sister," said the redhead earnestly. "Honestly, it's for the best."

Zoe just squealed as Roy bustled her out of the door and into a cab out the front.

"Come on, Lynda, let's go," said Spike urgently, tossing bills onto the table. "Everyone's staring."

"Do you know that girl?" asked the redhead as they passed her on the way out.

"Never saw her before tonight," lied Spike blithely.

"Me either," said Lynda hastily and they exited Maxie's in a hurry.

"I'm sorry our night was ruined like that," said Spike. "I should have taken you somewhere else."

Lynda shrugged. "It wasn't a complete disaster. My meal was delicious and I have a new favourite drink."

"So what now? You want to go someplace else?"

"How about home?" Lynda suggested.

"Sure. Why, are you tired?" Spike hailed a cab and they climbed into the back seat.

"No," Lynda looked as devilish as Zoe had accused her of being. "But I do have another outfit I want to show you."

"Is it the one from Victoria's Secret?" Spike asked hopefully. "They only do nice stuff, right? No flannelette? No voluminous brushed cotton nighties?"

"Definitely no flannelette," agreed Lynda. "No yards of brushed cotton. In fact, not much fabric at all. Unless you count that sheer gauzy stuff . . ."

Spike yelped. "Driver, don't spare the horses!"


	22. Chapter 22

To: Day, Lynda

From: Tildsley, Toni

Subject: Re: sacking

Hi Lynda

Thanks for your email.

Unfortunately, by law, you are not allowed to terminate employees based on your "lucky numbers" system. Our Termination of Employment policy is very clear on this matter.

I can send you a copy if you wish.

Also, we are not allowed to "suspend bathroom privileges" to meet deadlines.

Enjoy your holiday and say hi to Spike for me.

Toni

* * *

To: (undisclosed recipient)

From: sasha

Subject: Th1s W1LL mak3 y0u b1g

big discount on viagra

make you last all night

leave ladies wanting more

click here for free sample

* * *

To: Day, Lynda

From: Phillips, Kenny

Subject: Re: your devious betrayal

Hello Lynda

I'm choosing to ignore most of your last email because I know you don't mean it.

In answer to your questions, Colin has been behaving no more shiftily than usual, Julie has produced a doctor's certificate for her time away and we remain on track for the next edition.

Hope you're having a good time in the States. Can you bring me back some peanut butter M and Ms?

Cheers

Kenny

* * *

To: Day, Lynda

From: Anthony Mazarati (NPI)

Subject: Re: surveillance

Dear Ms Day

Thank you for your email.

Whilst we are able to provide external surveillance of The Phoenix offices as per your request, I regret to inform you we cannot "infiltrate the staff" nor "keep tabs on the doings of one Colin Mathews by means of an electronic tracking device."

We regret we are also unable to "bug" the entire office as monitoring such a workplace 24 hours a day, 7 days a week would require more resources than we currently employ. Nor are we able to install cameras that you can monitor from your mobile telephone.

I appreciate you could "make it worth our while" but unfortunately, we are unable to provide the level of service which you require.

Regards

Anthony Mazarati

Norbridge Private Investigators

* * *

To: Day, Lynda

From: System Administrator

Subject: Your Mailbox Is Over It's Size Limit

Your mailbox has exceeded one or more size limits set by your administrator.

Your mailbox size is 78593 KB.

Mailbox size limits:

You will receive a warning when your mailbox reaches 75000 KB.You may not be able to send or receive new mail until you reduce your mailbox size.

To make more space available, delete any items that you are no longer using or move them to your personal folder file (.pst).

Items in all of your mailbox folders including the Deleted Items and Sent Items folders count against your size limit.

You must empty the Deleted Items folder after deleting items or the space will not be freed.

See client Help for more information.

* * *

To: Day, Lynda

From: Herbert Vader

Subject: What the Government Doesn't Want You To Know

Dear Ms Day

Further to our conversation last week where our call was unexpectedly terminated (I expect your phone is probably tapped and a trigger word tripped the disconnect switch from my end), I wish to point you in the direction of a website I am maintaining to get the truth out to the people.

I have hidden the link in the Word document attached. Please help continue the fight against urban terrorism.

Regards

Herbert Vader

* * *

To: All Staff

From: Craig, Julie

Subject: Cake in the tea room!

Hi everyone!

Please help yourself to a piece of cake in the tea room to celebrate.

Cheers

Julie

* * *

To: Day, Lynda

From: Marion and Michael Day

Subject: Hello!

Hello dear

How is America? I hope you and Spike are having a lovely holiday and you are enjoying meeting all of your future in-laws!

Just thought I'd catch you up on all the news from home. Mrs Parsons from next door had a terrible fall on the icy path outside of her house and had to go into hospital, poor thing. I'm popping in to water her plants and to feed Muffin the cat. There was an excellent program on BBC1 about how animals can prolong your life expectancy. I rather fancy getting a cat of my own to keep me company what with your father still away and you soon to be entering married life! It will be nice to have a cat on the hearth again, we haven't had one in the house since you sold that kitten of yours. I think a nice tortoiseshell would be just the thing. And it would match the curtains! LOL! (I bought a book on internet acronyms and that means Laughing Out Loud).

Speaking of books, I found that one I lost, it was on a shelf in the hall cupboard! I must be going a bit dotty as I certainly don't remember putting it there. I would never have found it, only I was looking for the box that has your school photos in it and there it was, looking back at me. Anyway, as it turns out, it wasn't really that good so I think I'll pass it on to Mrs Parsons when I visit her next week.

I have been doing lots of research for the wedding. One of the ladies from the church auxiliary has offered to do the cake. She can do you a choice of dark or light fruitcake with the marzipan icing and columns and a little bride and groom on top, or doves, or wedding rings, whichever you like. I've attached some photos so you can see her handiwork and if you like something in particular, you can let her know.

Aunt Agnes was wondering when you would be sending out invitations as she's soon off on her holiday to King's Lynn and wanted to give you the address of the cottage so she can receive it there if need be. Will you be inviting all of the cousins? Wendy and Jason and their children dropped in the other day and I didn't like to mention it in case you needed to keep numbers down, but do let me know so I can start making a shortlist.

Anyway, dear, I am missing you terribly and your father sends his love.

k (that means "kisses")

Mum


	23. Chapter 23

Spike awoke to find himself alone in the big white bed. No sign of Lynda in the adjoining bathroom either so he pulled on a pair of jeans and padded downstairs. A pot of coffee - minus one cup - sat on the warmer but she wasn't in the dining area or on the balcony. Trotting back upstairs, he passed the first floor landing and noticed the study door was closed. Pushing it open, he found her sitting at the computer, wrapped in his robe, coffee in hand. She jumped slightly as he came into the room.

"Why do you always prowl around like that?" she asked, turning her attention back to the screen.

"Good morning to you too," he said. "What are you doing?"

"Just reading my emails," replied Lynda, smugly.

"You know how to do that remotely?" Spike asked, surprised.

"Sure. Billy showed me. Easy," replied Lynda, discreetly covering the page of detailed step-by-step instructions Billy had also left with her. "So what are we doing today?"

"I thought I might take you somewhere a bit special," said Spike. "How do you feel about Disneyland?"

"Disneyland?" Lynda asked, dubiously. "Isn't that for kids?"

"No way!" replied Spike. "They have some really cool rollercoasters and lots of other neat stuff. Besides, I have a double pass to both Disneyland and California Adventure so we're going whether you like it or not."

"Well, all right," said Lynda doubtfully. "I suppose I had better put some clothes on."

"Optional," grinned Spike. Lynda rolled her eyes.

"I suppose jeans would be suitable?" she asked, pushing past him and moving up the stairs.

"Unless you want your skirt flying up into your face on the Maliboomer," agreed Spike from behind. "Actually . . ."

Lynda ignored him again. "And some sort of t-shirt? What sort of shoes?"

"Come on, Lynda, is it really that hard? I mean, you are female. You're not completely clueless about dressing yourself, I know you can do it when you want to. I mean, you first showed me the night of the cocktail party. So why do you always pretend to know nothing about it?"

Lynda regarded him quietly for a minute and Spike felt uneasy. Had he actually really upset her in some way? Granted, it was easy to do but she usually exploded immediately so he didn't have to wonder.

"This may be hard to believe," said Lynda, finally. "But when I was about eight or so, I had a group of girlfriends."

"You're right, that is hard to believe," said Spike. "What happened?"

"Simple, really," said Lynda. "They started showing interest in boys, clothes and make-up and turned into giggling idiots. I was so determined not to turn out like them, I went in completely the opposite direction."

"How unlike you," replied Spike.

"I suppose I just formed a habit of not caring about my appearance," said Lynda, thoughtfully. "And I thought maybe people took you more seriously when you weren't all glammed up. I mean, look at Sam and Julie. Sam might have been a complete bitch - and it takes one to know one - but she ran that Graphics department better than anyone. And who knew Julie could step in as assistant editor? Yet, no-one really took them seriously. Julie wasn't even considered for the Editor job. Sullivan told me."

"But you realise now, don't you, that you can be smart, successful without looking like you're sponsored by Oxfam," said Spike.

Lynda shrugged. "Maybe I will eventually."

"Come on, let's move," said Spike, changing the subject. "Big day ahead, and it's a bit of a drive down to Anaheim. I'll help you today but then you're on your own." He quickly pulled out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and some trainers. "I'll leave underwear - the most fun part - up to you. Surprise me. Again."

Just over an hour later, they were pulling into the huge parking lot of Disneyland. Although it was still quite early in the morning, cars were already streaming in, with licence plates from all over the USA.

"Well, here we are," said Spike. "The Magic Kingdom awaits!"

They passed through the turnstiles.

"Oh, look, Spike! It's Sleeping Beauty's castle!" Lynda pointed to one of Disneyland's most famous landmarks.

"Just for kids, huh?" Spike asked.

"Shut up," said Lynda, happily. "I loved that castle when I was small. I used to tell Kenny I was going to live there one day."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. He offered be my number 1 knight and protect me from dragons. I told him he could live in the dungeons if he was quiet."

"Dragons, huh?" Spike grinned. "Well, we would have had to fight over who was going to kill them for you."

"Still the worst chat-up line ever," said Lynda, fondly. "Now, come on! What are we going to do first?"

"I always had a soft spot for Big Thunder Mountain Railway," said Spike.

"Lead the way," replied Lynda.

* * *

At the end of the day, two weary people stumbled back into the Santa Monica townhouse.

Lynda yawned hugely.

"Come on, miss. Bedtime," said Spike, ushering her up the stairs.

Lynda didn't protest. "I don't know why I'm so tired!"

"Hey, it was a big day," replied Spike, following her into the bedroom. "Plus, you probably still have a little jet lag."

"It was a big day, wasn't it? How many times did we ride California Screamin'? Four?" She went to put her Mickey Mouse ears on the nightstand and her eyes fell upon two small orange pieces of foam material that hadn't been there the night before. "What are those?"

Spike groaned inwardly. He had got away with it for so long, had been so clever in hiding them every morning. One slip-up and it was all over.

He swept up the tiny plugs and dumped them into the drawer beside the bed, carefully weighing up his options. If he said "nothing" and tried to blow over it, Lynda would immediately become suspicious. Best to go with the truth.

"Earplugs."

"What for?"

"My ears?"

"Obviously," said Lynda dryly. "I mean, why do you need them?"

"I can't sleep if it's too noisy," said Spike, truthfully.

"Well, it's not noisy here," replied Lynda. "It's quiet as the grave. Not like my first flat back at home. Although I suppose it was handy for hearing you coming home, even before the plane had landed!"

"Must be just habit," said Spike, desperately. "Anyway, let's get to bed. I'm beat."

"You wear them at home as well?" Lynda asked, like the proverbial dog with a bone. "But the new place is almost as quiet as here. I mean, the bins getting emptied on Wednesdays wake me up sometimes but other than that . . ."

Spike sighed resolutely to himself.

"Well, the thing is, Lynda, every so often - when you're particularly tired, you tend to - uhh - make a little noise while you're sleeping."

"Are you saying I snore?" asked Lynda in disbelief.

"A little," said Spike. "It's kind of cute, really, just a tiny bit . . . loud."

"I do not snore!"

"Yeah, Lynda, you do. Come on, it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Nobody has ever said I've snored before! Nobody!"

"Well, I don't mean to point out your level of - uhh - experience," said Spike gently, "but who else would know?"

"Sarah!"

"What?" Spike choked. "You and Sarah? When? I mean . . . woah! You kept that quiet!"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Thomson," snapped Lynda. "I meant, she has slept over before. In my room, on a mattress, on the floor."

"Oh. Right," Spike regained his composure. "So, what? You're going to ring and ask her?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do," replied Lynda, pulling her defunct phone from her bag.

"That doesn't work over here," reminded Spike.

"I'm aware of that," retorted Lynda. "It does, however, still function as an address book." She pressed buttons until she found Sarah's number, then leaned over to the phone on Spike's side of the bed. Punching in the numbers, she was listening to the ringtone when Spike, a faint smirk playing on his face, leaned over and pressed the speakerphone button so he could hear as well.

"Hello?" came the sleepy response.

"It's me," said Lynda briskly. "Do I snore?"

"Lynda?"

"And Spike!" Spike chimed in. "Good morning, Sarah. Sorry about the wake-up call."

"It's 2am," replied Sarah dryly. "I'd only need a wake-up call at this hour if I was off to a rave."

"Never mind that," said Lynda. "Do I snore, yes or no?"

"Yes," said Sarah, simply. "Yes, you do."

"Some friend you are," replied Lynda after a second of stunned silence. "Who let you stay over so you could sneak out to parties and get in after midnight?"

"And who would forget I was there in the morning and step on my head on the way out to the bathroom?" countered Sarah.

"Hang up, Spike," commanded Lynda.

"Sorry again, Sarah," Spike managed through his laughter and hung up the phone.

"Believe me now?"

"One person is not irrefutable proof," Lynda replied. "What am I always telling you about reliable sources? It started with the disco story and hasn't stopped since!"

Spike, unable to help himself, continued. "You know, I could always tell if you'd slept at the newsroom, even if you hadn't left your sleeping bag rolled out in the meeting room."

"How?" asked Lynda curiously.

"The way everything had moved slightly on the shelving, as if there had been some sort of earth tremor . . ." He broke off as Lynda gave him a death stare.

"Well, as it happens, I know of an easy solution to this snoring problem," she said.

"What's that?"

"You sleeping on the couch! Get out!"

"When will I ever learn?" Spike asked himself on the way out.

Passing the study on the way down to the guest bedroom, he noticed the computer had been left on and went it to switch it off. Moving the mouse, the screensaver disappeared and the email from Lynda's mother was revealed on the screen. Spike scanned it. Mrs Day sure was going all out on the details. Just the kind of thing that was bound to make Lynda flip out.

Time to put his plan into action.

He sat down at the computer. He Googled something, browsed the results and paid for something on his credit card. He began to type out a message. He included some links. Then he copied the message and sent it on to a few more people. His credit card came out again. He used his phone to make some transatlantic phone calls. Then credit card again.

It was 3am before he finally crawled back upstairs into the bedroom he was sharing with Lynda. She was so deeply asleep, when he climbed into bed, she didn't even stir.

Or stop snoring.


	24. Chapter 24

Friday morning was always a busy time for Czar's Cafe. A small graphics firm with offices nearby were holding a breakfast meeting in the booth closest to the door. Two older women in cleaners uniforms were hunched over tea and toast with marmalade, discussing the latest installment of Coronation Street. Groups of schoolkids lounged around the other tables drinking coffee and posing for mobile phone photos. People lined up in a steady stream for takeaway cups of coffee and greasy bacon sarnies wrapped in paper.

Colin Matthews had been in there since 8am in order to secure the back booth. Somewhat superstitious, he was reluctant to change the existing arrangement. Everything had gone to plan so far, why tempt fate?

He had checked his emails before leaving the house and was seized by panic when Lynda's name came up in his inbox. He thought briefly about deleting it unread. Technology was a terrific scapegoat for missing emails, dropped calls, all manner of things and he had used it to great advantage previously. He switched the preview pane on, as though that would lessen any impact and breathed a sign of relief when he realised it was Spike using Lynda's account.

From one schemer to another, Colin had to admire his nerve. If Spike could pull it off, it would be a real cracker. What a pity he never showed interest in repeated overtures from Colin and his uncle to join them in any of their business deals.

He flicked open and shut his mobile phone impatiently while stirring 3 spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. A scone sat untouched on the table.

The phone rang in his hand, startling him.

"CM Enterprises, Colin Matthews speaking."

"Colin, where are you? We've got a finance meeting in 20 minutes!" Cindy's voice was stern.

"How did you get this number?" Colin asked. "This is my . . . private business number."

"I know it is. I set it up for you! And why aren't you answering your Phoenix phone?"

"I'm in a meeting. For the benefit of The Phoenix," replied Colin truthfully.

"Do you mean 'benefit of The Phoenix because it will make you happy and it benefits our office to have you happy' or actual monetary benefit?" asked Cindy shrewdly.

"A little from Column A . . ." Colin spotted a brightly striped woollen jumper weaving through the dark uniforms of the Norbridge High pupils and breathed a sigh of relief. "Look, Cindy, I've got to fly, my - errr, our client has just arrived. This could be big, kid, I don't want to blow it. You can run the meeting, talk to the guys, you know your stuff. And hey if you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bull . . ."

"Colin!" Cindy's protest was cut short as Colin snapped his phone shut.

"Ladybird, ladybird," he grinned as his companion slid into the booth and yawned heavily.

"Fly away home," was the blurry reply.

"So how are things?" Colin asked brightly. "You're looking . . . well!"

"It's done," replied the contact bluntly, rubbing his tangled head. "I've been up all night, Colin. I'm not sure if I was writing in English by the end of it."

"Well, allow me to reward your dedication. Coffee?" Colin gestured to Anastacia, the waitress, who looked as though she would dearly like to gesture back with two fingers. 'It's on me."

"God, no," replied his contact - obviously not appreciating the magnitude of Colin offering to pay for someone else's beverages. "I've already drunk my yearly recommended intake of caffeine in the last 24 hours."

"Tea, then," said Colin firmly and then - even more surprisingly - "I insist. And here, I got you a scone."

"Thanks. Black with one, then," said the Scot to Anastacia who scribbled something Cyrillic on her pad.

"Same again, Colin?" she asked, resignedly.

"Please," replied Colin.

The contact had accepted the plate with the scone and slid over a typed document in return. The cover page was emblazoned with "The Norbridge Files - Written By Steven Moffat".

"Brilliant!" said Colin. "I'm already hearing the theme tune. Something bold that commands attention. Maybe some typewriters chattering away at the start . . ." He hummed to himself as he flipped open the first page. "We haven't used typewriters for a few years but I find they have more impact audio-wise than just tapping away at a keyboard, don't you think?"

"Well, let's just see if they like the script first and worry about those details further on down the track." Steven sawed open the scone with some difficulty and began spreading butter on it.

"All part of the creative process," said Colin, cheerfully. "Dah dah dah DAH dah dah dah dah . . . we could even have it as a downloadable ringtone. There's a fortune to be made in that market. I just missed out on that whole Crazy Frog thing. Unfortunately, there wasn't quite so much interest in the Crazy Goat."

At that moment, Anastacia plonked their hot drinks down in front of them and tea splashed up over the rim into the saucer and onto the table. Colin scooped up the document protectively and clutched it to his chest.

"Careful, Anastacia! We've got precious material here!"

"You want me to give it a wipe over?" She held out a damp and considerably grimy dishcloth.

"No, thanks," said Colin, distastefully. "We want to keep this as well preserved as possible as people will one day be bidding up a storm on eBay for it."

Anastacia rolled her eyes and left them to it. Colin continued his read-through with an appropriately serious expression. "Mmhmm. Mmhmm. Yes. Ah - I see what you're doing here. Yes. Mmhmm." He flipped further through the document to the end, then placed it back on the table. He steepled his fingers and stared intently at the man opposite who was regarding him anxiously.

"Well?"

"What can I say? It's only the best thing one of my writers has ever produced!" said Colin, honestly.

"You're not serious?" asked Steven in delight, not knowing he was the only writer on the books of CM Enterprises.

"As serious as third-degree burns," replied Colin. "I am coming straight at you in stereo on Sincerity FM so plug your earphones in and listen up. I love it. I just love it. I love every comma, every space and every dot on every i. And you and I have formed the partnership which fathered this script. This document, Steven . . ." he patted it lovingly ". . . is our baby."

"Right," said Steven, uneasily.

"I'm glad I listened to your father about taking you on board as a client," continued Colin, gleefully. "Heck, if it weren't still illegal, I'd marry you myself. Don't suppose you've got any sisters?"

"No," laughed Steven. "Though I do have a cousin about your age back in Glasgow. Red hair and completely mad. She's a Fish. They're all a bit loopy."

"Your cousin is a fish?" asked Colin warily. These eccentric writer types . . . one had to be careful. Didn't Hemingway try and marry a penguin?

"That's right," said Steven. "Elizabeth Fish, although I think she goes by Liz these days. She's a journalist - maybe I should get her to look you up for a job if she's ever down here."

"Do that," said Colin absently as his mind returned to more pressing matters. "Now, let's talk meeting! I thought I'd bring you along to Central today so they can meet the boy wonder behind this script. Which, by the way, they are going to love more than big-eyed kittens in pink baskets."

"Oh, I don't know about that," protested Steven. "I mean, I'm not used to meetings, I don't know what to . . . those situations, I can't . . ."

Colin smiled. "It's called The Zone, Steven. Just leave the talking to me. Shall we?"

He rose from the table and slapped a note down on the table. Anastacia nodded them out, went to collect it and nearly had a heart attack.

"My God! What is the world coming to when Colin Matthews leaves 50 pounds to pay for a tab worth nine pound ninety?"

"You what?" asked Czar from behind the counter, his incredulity evident by the way he actually looked up from his newspaper.

"He must have struck it big on that deal he's been doing in here the last couple of weeks," she said. "That bloke he was with, might have looked scruffy but is probably one of them tycoons or something. Did you ever! We should frame it, we should."

"Probably drugs," said Czar sagely. "That's where all them young people get their money from these days. They go to them rave clubs and eat sweets all night, then come in for breakfast at 11 still in all that bright fluffy rubbish they wear."

At that point, Colin came rushing back into the cafe and snatched the note out of Anastacia's hand.

"Sorry, wrong one," he said, giving her a ten pound note in return. "Keep the change, won't you?"


	25. Chapter 25

Kenny, who was house-sitting for Spike, was enjoying a well-deserved lie-in that morning. There were many aspects contributing to his enjoyment - he had the whole day off, he was perfectly warm, perfectly comfortable, the duvet still had that freshly laundered smell and just enough sunlight was filtering through the curtains to give the room a dreamy glow.

Then, of course, there was also the added bonus of the red curls tumbled onto the pillow next to him and the green eyes looking back at him which had opened a few second earlier.

"Top o' the morning to you," he said, smiling fondly.

Kelly groaned and rolled the green eyes in question. "If you think I'm going to answer with 'to be sure', you're sadly mistaken."

"You just did," Kenny pointed out, smirking.

"Cheeky," Kelly replied and stretched luxuriously. "Taking advantage of my semi-conscious state."

"As opposed to the other states I've taken advantage of you in," Kenny was grinning quite salaciously by now. Kelly grinned back.

"Do you have any plans for the day, besides talking filth to an innocent young woman?" she asked.

"No, unless you count planning not to leave this bed until the call of nature forces me to," replied Kenny, snuggling comfortably into her.

As soon as the words left his mouth, the doorbell rang downstairs. Kenny sighed.

"Just ignore it," said Kelly hopefully.

"I should," said Kenny, throwing back the duvet resignedly.

"They'll go away," said Kelly.

"It's probably the Jehovah's again," said Kenny, struggling into a jumper. "I should never have taken that first Watchtower magazine." He gestured to the corner where a small pile of publications in pristine unopened condition stood neatly stacked. "Or it will be chuggers."

"Chuggers?" Kelly asked.

"Charity muggers," replied Kenny, pulling on the first pair of trousers that came to hand. "I hate them. Well, I don't hate them, I understand they have a job to do, and most times they are doing it for worthy causes but I just don't like the way they accost you in the street and you can't give to everyone . . ."

"Just ignore it, then!" repeated Kelly.

Kenny smiled resolutely. "I should," he replied and headed downstairs.

A curly-haired figure was visible through the smoked glass of his flat's front door and Kenny was suddenly seized with panic.

"Lynda?"

Trotting down the hallway, he wrenched open the door. But it was not Lynda Day who stood on his doorstep, angrily waving a piece of paper in his face. It was her mother.

"Marion? What brings you here?"

"Have you seen this?" she asked shrilly.

"Have I seen what?"

"He's abducted her!"

"Who's abducted who?" Kenny was thoroughly confused, not to mention feeling slightly awkward standing in front of Lynda's mother in his stripy pyjama bottoms.

Marion thrust the piece of paper at him with shaking hands and Kenny took it.

"An email from Lynda . . .?" he asked.

"No! Keep reading!" Kenny did as he was told (which had become rather a habit for him, after all) and then understanding dawned.

"Oh, I see!" He couldn't help but smile. Spike's sheer nerve was the stuff of legend. Mind you, he did currently have the entire Atlantic Ocean as a buffer zone.

"Did you know about this?" Marion demanded.

"No! Not at all!" said Kenny, hastily. "Look, why don't you come in? I'll make you a cup of tea."

Marion sniffed and entered the flat. Kenny seated her on the lounge and began bustling around with the kettle.

"Do you still take milk with one?" he asked. There was no response. Kenny came out of the kitchen to find Marion sobbing into her handkerchief.

"He's ruined everything!" she wailed. "I had it all planned!"

"Oh, Marion, don't cry," said Kenny, alarmed. He sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Kenny?" Kelly had appeared at the doorway, wrapped in Kenny's dressing gown and was looking thoroughly confused at the sight of her boyfriend sitting on the couch with his arm around a middle-aged woman.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Marion said primly, dabbing at her eyes. "I didn't realise you had company."

"This is Lynda's mum, Marion," explained Kenny, trying to keep an eye on Kelly, Marion and the kettle at the same time. "She's errr, just had some unexpected news."

"Oh, right!" said Kelly, nodding with understanding. "The pregnancy."

Marion shrieked and looked accusingly at Kenny.

"No, no, no," said Kenny, hastily. "It was a false alarm. Sorry, I should have told you," he said to Kelly.

"I'll just . . . be upstairs," said Kelly, beating a hasty retreat back to the bedroom.


	26. Chapter 26

Spike was woken early by his pillow vibrating.

It didn't usually do that so he fumbled blindly underneath for the off-switch before his hands closed over his cell phone. Remembering why he had switched it to vibrate and put it under his pillow in the first place, he quickly exited the bedroom, sneaking a glance at the still-sleeping Lynda before shutting the door behind him.

"Hello, Spike Thomson," he said in a low voice as he tip-toed down the stairs.

"Spike, it's Kenny."

"Kenny, hey!"

"Look, I just thought you should know, Marion's in a bit of a state."

"I expected as much," replied Spike. "Like mother, like daughter, am I right?"

"You could say that," said Kenny, casting an eye back into the living room where Marion still sat on the couch, looking pale and drawn. "Listen, are you sure about this?"

"Sure as I ever am," replied Spike. A noise upstairs implied Lynda was awake and on her way down. "Look, I gotta go, okay? Talk soon."

"If Marion doesn't put a hit out on you first," replied Kenny and hung up. Spike set about putting on the coffee.

Lynda came down the stairs, rumpling her hair.

"You're up early," she said by way of greeting. "Did you sleepwalk down here or something?"

"And good morning to you too, my beloved," replied Spike. "You're looking as radiant as ever."

"Give me a break, it's too early," yawned Lynda. "I haven't been caffienated yet."

"Whatever happened to 'Flirt Time With Spike'?" Spike asked, handing her a mug. "It used to be top of the page."

"I had to move it to every alternate Thursday at 3pm. Didn't you get my updated Outlook request?"

"Oh, that. Yes, you cleverly disguised it as 'Remedial Spelling and Punctuation', if I recall correctly."

"That's the one," said Lynda, pleased.

"Changing the subject," said Spike, sipping his own coffee, "I need to go and visit someone today."

"Who?"

"My grandmother."

Lynda regarded him shrewdly. "Is that your new euphemism for 'ex-girlfriend'? Whatever happened to 'aunt'?"

"I'm serious, actually," replied Spike. "My grandmother, Edith. My dad's mother. You don't have to come if you don't want to, but I'd kind of like you to meet her."

"Well, okay," replied Lynda. "That would be nice."

"I hope so," said Spike, softly to himself, as Lynda headed upstairs to shower and change.

An hour later, they were on the road in the black SUV and soon they were pulling into the car park of what appeared to be a large mansion.

"Wow!" said Lynda, impressed. "This reminds me of Cameron Campbell's place. Does she live here alone?" They got out of the car and began walking towards the building.

"Not entirely," said Spike, and pointed to a discreet sign on the gate that read "Holiday Villa East".

"Oh," nodded Lynda. "Like a retirement village."

"Not entirely," repeated Spike, sadly. They got closer to the sign and Lynda read underneath "Alzheimers Care Facility".

"I see," said Lynda quietly.

"I should warn you, she may not be entirely . . . lucid," said Spike. They entered the building and Lynda squeezed his hand in an uncharacteristic display of sympathy.

They walked along the corridor in silence. Other patients could be heard in other rooms, talking excitedly, sobbing or moaning.

"Ah, 27C. Here we are," said Spike, a little too heartily. He tapped gently on the door and walked in.

The room was decorated tastefully with small knick-knacks and framed photographs. Lynda noticed one of Spike as a young boy and also the most recent one of him as a young adult, his arm slung around his father. She had seen the same photo at Spike's Dad's house.

An elderly woman sat in a comfortable-looking armchair, staring out of the window. She looked frail but otherwise quite healthy. As they entered the room, she looked at them and smiled.

"James!" she said, happily. "How nice of you to come and see me."

Spike beamed at the recognition in her voice. "Hello, Gramma."

He walked over to her and hugged her gently.

"And you've brought Katherine!" she said, turning to Lynda. "It's lovely to see you again, dear. Have you changed your hair?"

Spike's face fell. "No, Gramma. This is Lynda."

"Hello," said Lynda awkwardly. "It's nice to meet you."

"But what happened to Katherine?" asked Edith, looking surprised. "Don't tell me you've split again, James. I tell you, it's not fair on poor Jimmy."

"It is Jimmy, Gramma. All grown-up now. Well, some might disagree," he added, casting a wry glance at Lynda. "But older, anyway."

"You're little Jimmy?" Edith asked, slowly. "But . . ."

"That's right," replied Spike. Edith looked as if she was trying to process the information.

"And this is - ?" she gestured at Lynda. "I'm sorry, I'm not as good with names as I used to be."

"That's okay," said Spike. "This is Lynda, my fiance. She's English too. Just like Mom."

Edith's face lit up. "You're getting married?"

Spike nodded. Edith clapped her hands delightedly.

"Oh, your father will be so pleased! Where is he? I haven't seen him for some time." She leaned towards Lynda and added in a conspiratorial whisper, "I think he's got himself another lady friend. He always did have an eye for the women. Poor Katherine."

Spike looked sad again. "Gramma, Dad died a year ago."

Edith looked stricken. "James died? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Spike took her hands in his. "They did, Grammy. We went to the funeral with you."

"I think I'd remember my own son's funeral," said Edith, haughtily, snatching her hands away from Spike and then looking at him suspiciously. "What did you say your name was again?"

"It's Jimmy, Gramma. Your grandson."

"My grandson Jimmy is six years old," replied Edith. "I don't know who you are."

"Look, maybe I had better go . . ." Lynda started to say. Edith turned to her and smiled.

"Katherine, thank goodness you're here," she said. "Have you brought little Jimmy to see me?"

"I, err - " Lynda looked desperately at Spike. "No, it's just me and my friend here, this time. Passing through, you know."

"Oh," Edith looked disappointed for a second and then brightened. "Did you know Robert and Thelma had their baby?"

"Robert - oh, Eddie!" Lynda asked. "Err, what did they have?"

"A boy. Robert Charles. Randy, they call him. Such an adorable little thing." She picked up a photo frame from the table and held it out to Lynda who took it. The photo showed a much younger Thelma and Eddie, holding a tiny bundle and grinning at the camera. "Almost as adorable as little Jimmy when he was born. They're coming to visit me this afternoon."

Lynda handed back the photo frame and Edith replaced it with care.

"Well, I suppose we should be going," said Spike heavily.

"Oh, so soon?" Edith looked disappointed. "I was hoping you might stay until Robert and Thelma visited, to see the baby."

"I'd love to," said Lynda, "But I'm afraid we really have to be going."

"Well, it was nice to see you," Edith said, giving her arm a squeeze. "Take care now." She turned to Spike. "Nice to meet you too, er . . ."

"Bye, Grammy," said Spike, sadly.

They walked out of the room and had got a few paces down the hall, when Edith hurried out after them.

"Wait! Jimmy!"

They turned to see her holding the frame containing the photo of Spike and his dad.

"Jimmy, you've grown so much!"

Spike smiled.

"You're even handsomer than your father was," she said. "God rest his soul."

His eyes filling with tears, he hugged his grandmother again and kissed her gently on the cheek.

"Bye, Grammy," he said again.

"Bye, Jimmy," she said. "Come and visit me again soon."


	27. Chapter 27

Colin didn't drink very often.

Nor did he pitch pilot scripts for teen "dramedies" very often. Let alone successfully.

He had arrived at the offices of Central Television with briefcase in hand and Steven in tow. His luck was already in when they met by a different receptionist. This time, when offered coffee, he could politely allow Steven to order first and chime in with "make that two", saving any potential embarrassment with fairy cups or caffeine overdoses. After receiving a normal cup of coffee in a proper cup, he discreetly jotted "flat white" down on a notepad for the next time.

It had been, Colin reflected, a dream pitch. His Scottish offsider had responded well to questions, there were chuckles and even guffaws during the reading and Colin himself was unstoppable in The Zone. By the time they had risen from the table and shook hands all round, he could have persuaded them to back a programme set entirely around paperclips.

So to celebrate, he had allowed himself to be persuaded to join Steven in a drink at a pub around the corner from the offices of The Phoenix.

Hours later, he was trying to explain the concept of supply and demand to a vacuous blonde at the bar using a bowl of peanuts and a sopping bar coaster.

"You see . . . the peanuts are the customers. No . . . wait, that's not right. The peanuts . . . are the product and the coasters are . . . hang on. See. Everyone wants nuts. Right? And if the bar coaster is the only supplier of the nuts and then you have people wanting nuts . . . let's see - what can be the people . . ." he cast his eyes around the bar and snatched up an empty pint glass. "Say the glass is the people. Or the person. Or a people's person. Like me."

The blonde smiled glassily.

"No, really, I am." Colin nodded. "Steven? Am I a person people? I mean - a people person?"

Steven was cosily ensconced in a booth behind him and nodded genially. "You are the people's champion, Colin."

This was better conversation than he was getting from the blonde, so Colin slid gently off his barstool and glided back to the booth.

"Where's my drink?" Steven asked.

"Hmm?"

"You were going to the bar to get a round in."

"Err, I did. That's it." Colin pointed to Steven's half-empty glass. "I spilt a little on the way back."

"Oh. Cheers, then!"

"Cheers!"

"So," Steven settled back into the booth. "Let's talk casting. What do you think of that blonde up there at the bar for Lisa?"

Colin shook his head firmly. "Lynda's got brown hair."

"Huh?"

"I mean, Lisa's got brown hair. Sort of curly. And she wouldn't be seen dead in a dress like that. I know. She told me. I think I've still got the bruises."

"Ah, okay," Steven nodded. "Going against type, I like it. What about Mike?"

"Has to be a genuine American," replied Colin, thoughtfully. "I promised."

"I meant to ask you about that," said Steven. "Why American?"

"Well, because that's where he's from," replied Colin, surprised. "I mean, he can't help it."

"No, why did you make the character American? Don't get me wrong, it's a good move. We can have lots of fun with snappy lines, insults from Lisa, that kind of thing."

"Errr," said Colin. "Well, I just thought if there's a possibility of selling the show overseas, it would appeal more to the American market if there was an American character involved. You know what they're like."

Steven regarded him solemnly for a moment. "You're a genius, Colin."

"Thank you," replied Colin, modestly.

"No, really, you are," Steven hoisted his glass high and clinked it against Colin's. "You've got such a clear picture of these characters, it's just amazing. Say for example, Judy. I bet you could tell me all about Judy Cray and she doesn't even feature that much in the pilot."

"Ah. Now, Judy's a blonde," said Colin with authority. "The girl at the bar is more Julie than Lynda, lookswise. Although Julie's probably a bit cleverer. Good with a pencil. Got into art school, you know."

Steven regarded him fixedly for a moment. "Colin, can I ask you something?"

"Absolutely! We're pals, right? Not just writer and agent . . . buddies, chums, friends . . . and future successful television industry personalities. "

"Yes, all that. I need you to level with me, old friend, buddy, chum. These characters. They're not entirely fictitious, are they?"

"Of course! Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental and all events are entirely fictional!"

"Colin . . ."

Colin kept the beguiling look on his face for a few seconds before dropping it and shrugging his shoulders in an "okay, you got me" gesture.

"All right. Look, I'll level with you. They may bear a slight resemblance to persons living. And persons dead, come to that."

"I knew it! That Kelvin Michaels . . . it's you, isn't it? But what about all the stories, all the escapades . . . surely they're not all true? I mean, what about the rabbit suit at the funeral?"

"All true," Colin sighed. "Ask any of Norbridge's prominent business figures - they still talk about it to this day. Thank God I was semi-disguised - they don't often recognise me without the pink fur. It was extremely traumatic for me . . . although everyone else seems to think it's an absolute crack."

Steven was silent for a moment and then dissolved into helpless laughter.

"My God, Colin. We are going to have a lot of fun with this. But what will these people do to you when they find out you've turned them and their lives into a television programme?"

Colin looked thoughtful. "Well, I did mention it to two of them once. We started very early work on a treatment a few years ago . . ."

"And they didn't object?"

"Not specifically," replied Colin, carefully.

"And what about the paper - the project for schoolkids who needed challenges?"

"The paper still exists - the Junior Gazette. Bit of free publicity for the kids who work on it now and in turn, they could do a 'Behind The Scenes' feature on the programme. It's a win-win situation."

"What happened to all of these characters then, if they're no longer involved with the paper?"

"Most of us still work together. But we're on a magazine now, The Phoenix. Our editor set it all up after the old Junior Gazette offices burnt down and they returned the JG to the schoolkids."

"Hang on," Steven said. "You work there too? I thought you were an agent. My agent."

"I freelance here and there." Colin pulled out a business card holder from his pocket and thumbed through them until he found the right one. "Here you go."

Steven took the card and read it. "So you're the financial manager for a commercial magazine, and you still find time to manage a portfolio of creative artists. How?"

"I'm very good at keeping things in order," replied Colin, a little haughtily.

"I'm the only person on your books, aren't I?"

"No," said Colin, hastily before relenting. "Well, on my writing books, maybe. But I have many books."

"Several copies for the same accounts, if Kelvin Michaels is anything to go by!"

Colin ignored that jab and gave his best and most disarming smile. "Look, by having fewer artists in my stable, I'm able to dedicate my efforts more completely to the people I do have. You know, give more one-on-one time, create and foster agent/artist intimacy . . ."

"Steady on!"

"And it's worked, hasn't it?"

"I suppose," agreed Steven.

"Well," Colin settled back in his chair. "Your round, then!"


	28. Chapter 28

Spike had been unnaturally quiet for a few hours after their visit to the care facility.

Lynda, knowing why but unable to offer any words of meaningful comfort, instead refrained from making her usual barbed commentary and instead spoke to him softly, gently. Allowing him to hold her hand on the way home without shaking him off in irritation meant more than any empty phrases other people might utter in times like this.

By the time it had come to preparing dinner, he was more or less back to his normal self. As they chopped and sliced ingredients in the kitchen, he made a crack about allowing her to use knives and she fired a shot back about children having to be supervised by a competent adult in the kitchen and he knew they were back to normal. Well, as normal as they could get.

As they sat on the balcony eating a chicken and avocado salad of his own design, he thought about ways to best approach the suggestion of a road trip. He didn't want to raise her suspicions or scare her off on the destination.

"I think I'd like to get out of LA for a while," he said, finally.

Lynda looked surprised. "We've only been here a week."

"I know," Spike speared a piece of chicken and chewed it for a minute before continuing. "But a week in LA can feel a lot longer, if you know what I mean."

Lynda shrugged. "Well, you're in charge . . ."

Spike made an elaborate production of pretending to choke violently on his food.

"Would you like some water?" Lynda asked sarcastically. Spike regained his composure.

"No thanks, you'll probably throw it at me."

"That was the plan," Lynda agreed.

"So anyway," Spike continued. "I was thinking of a roadtrip."

"Americans and their cars. Where to?"

"I don't know," lied Spike. "Somewhere fun."

"What's fun?" asked Lynda dryly.

Spike pretended to have an idea. "Hey, I know what would be cool."

"Where?"

"I'll give you a hint." He stood up, pushed his hair forward and curled his top lip. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

Lynda stared at him blankly. "What for?"

Spike sighed. "Okay, obviously too obscure. How about something like this?" He shook an imaginary pair of dice in his hand, blew on them and tossed. "Come on, lucky seven! Daddy needs a new pair of shoes!"

Lynda looked at him as though he had grown another head. "You just got a new pair."

Spike sighed again and sat down. "You just don't - it's Vegas, okay? Las Vegas."

Lynda looked doubtful. "I don't know. What would I do there?"

"What would you do? Anything! Everything! It's great. Party Town."

"Isn't it a bit . . . tacky?"

"Of course. That's what makes it so awesome."

"If you wanted to see a couple of hotels with fruit machines and some dodgy lights, we could have saved some money and gone to Blackpool."

"I promise you, Lynda, Vegas is a tiny bit more than a couple of hotels with fruit machines and dodgy lights. If you don't have a good time, I'll jump off the Stratosphere Tower."

A devilish look crossed Lynda's face. "Now you're talking."

"So what do you say?"

Lynda sighed. "If it makes you happy."

Spike spluttered again.

"One day you really will be choking and I won't help you," warned Lynda as Spike clutched at his throat, rolling his eyes theatrically before returning to his plate.

"Well, stop making startling comments while I'm eating."

"Then don't eat when I'm talking!"

"Are you kidding? I'd starve to death!"

Lynda rolled her eyes as she finished her meal and placed her knife and fork neatly together at the side of the plate.

"Do you remember that first meal I cooked in the newsroom when we were on late duty?" Spike asked. "It was Chinese and the first time you'd dealt with chopsticks."

"I remember," grinned Lynda. "I remember all my victory meals."

"Until I realised your mother had drilled table etiquette into you from an early age; I was so afraid that you really did have such bad table manners, I didn't want to take you anywhere nice when we started dating."

"Oh come off it, Spike, I wasn't that bad."

"Lynda, you speared three or four pieces of chicken with a chopstick, stuffed them into your mouth so you could barely close it to chew and smeared sauce all over your face. I'd call that pretty bad. I know four-year olds who would have been appalled."

"Been hanging out with your peer group again?" Lynda retorted. "Anyway, that was years ago. I was 16!"

Spike nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose you've grown out of that competitive eating." He paused. "Race you for the last frozen yoghurt?"

"Try!"

For someone not inclined to be athletic, Lynda could move when she wanted to. Vaulting out of her chair and turning easily in one fluid movement, she slid through the balcony doors and across the floor towards the kitchen. Not to be outdone, Spike picked up the pace, sliding over the island bench to reach the freezer first.

"Damn!" Lynda cursed, slapping the bench.

"I lied," Spike said, grinning, pulling out the box. "There's two left." He pulled one out and offered her the remaining treat.

Lynda shook her head. "That's okay. I didn't really want it anyway."

"Could have fooled me!"

Lynda smiled. "Every time!"


	29. Chapter 29

"So you're really going to go?" Julie asked.

"Of course I am," Kenny replied, as they wove their way through the floor of the Phoenix office. "She'd murder me if I didn't. In spectacular fashion, I imagine. It would definitely make the national news."

"But it's a surprise. She wouldn't know that you knew."

Kenny looked at her wryly. "And you think that would make a difference to Lynda, do you?"

"Fair point," Julie conceded. They reached the door to Kenny's office and went inside. Julie flopped into the visitor chair. "When are you leaving?"

Kenny checked his watch. "Soon. Very soon, actually. Have to be at the airport by 4. That meeting went longer than anticipated."

"That's what happens when you let Frazz chair," replied Julie. "While I appreciate his 'getting to know you' theory, I'm afraid I couldn't see the relevance of going around the table and nominating our favourite supercars."

Kenny grinned. "Is this because people laughed when you said a pink Nissan Micra?"

Julie tossed her head. "They're cute. And don't tell me you really meant to say Zeyron . . ."

"Veyron," Kenny corrected.

"Whatever," Julie replied. "When we all know you've had that Volvo brochure in your desk for weeks."

"Have you been looking in my drawers?"

"Don't flatter yourself, kid," replied Julie, a little too hastily. She began examining her manicure and yawned loudly. "So you're all packed and ready to go?"

Kenny pointed to his neat travel case that stood ready and waiting by the door. "That reminds me. Here's a copy of all my documentation . . ." He rummaged in his desk (carefully sliding the Volvo brochure under some old payslips) and handed over a clear plastic wallet containing photocopies of his itinerary, tickets and passport.

Julie flicked through it idly and suddenly burst out laughing. "Your middle name is Barnaby?!"

Kenny snatched back the wallet. "I meant to Tippex that out."

Julie watched amusedly as Kenny painstakingly Tippexed over the offending moniker. "I suppose it's just assumed that I step in as Assistant Editor when you're not here?"

"You're the Executive Assistant Editor now - didn't HR tell you?"

"Yay!" said Julie sarcastically, clapping her hands. "I just love filling in those little black squares on the crossword. I have a system now - I use a really thick marker and . . ."

"It's Sudoku now," said Kenny. "You get to write numbers in." He blew on the Tippex to dry it.

Julie rolled her eyes, returned to the original topic and the meticulous inspection of her cuticles.

"So is her mum going?"

Kenny shrugged. "Not sure."

"Oh, no!" said Julie, aghast. "Look, surely we could chip in for the plane ticket . . . even if we dip into expenses. She really ought to be there."

"Oh, it's not that. Spike's bought her ticket. He even offered to buy mine."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is Marion Day has long dreamed of a wedding encompassing all the bells and whistles for her only child. The kitchen tea, the meringue dress, three bridesmaids in varying shades of pastel taffeta and a guestlist encompassing half of Norbridge and surrounds."

"Nothing wrong with that," said Julie, thinking wistfully of the bridal magazines she had stashed under her desk.

"I think it's taking her a while to get her head around the fact that the daughter getting married is Lynda Day and not . . . well, you."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what Lynda's like. She's managed and supervised increasing numbers of staff since she was 16. She could march into a boardroom of 25 executives and fire insults, ashtrays and demands at them but put her in a party or a room full of her closest friends and she's reduced to jelly. Jelly that has, on more than one occasion, been spotted slinking out of doors, climbing out of windows and – on one particularly memorable occasion – shinning down a trellis from a balcony. If I were a betting man, I'd put more than a fiver on her bailing on the wedding before it happened."

"You don't think she wants to marry Spike?"

"Oh no, I'm pretty sure she does," said Kenny. "Marriage, no problem. It's a contract, to her way of thinking. Wedding, different story."

"So this is Spike's way of getting her to actually go through with it before she realises what's going on? Isn't that a little . . ."

"Brilliant?"

"I was going to say 'underhanded', but then I remembered who we're dealing with," said Julie. "Yes, brilliant, I suppose. Although why you'd go to all the trouble . . . what does he actually see in her? I've often wondered."

Kenny opened his mouth to reply - although he wasn't sure what he planned to say - when Colin banged through the door, swinging a sports bag.

"Kenny! Are you ready? I've got a taxi ordered to take us to the airport. Should be here any minute."

"Colin? You're going too?"

"Absolutely!" Colin beamed. "I've always wanted to go to Vegas. Sounds like my kind of town. All those greenbacks floating around, just begging to be harnessed."

"And Spike and Lynda getting married, of course," said Kenny, dryly.

"Hmm? Oh yes, well that won't go too long, I shouldn't think. In and out then off to the craps."

"Colin! Don't be vulgar!"

Colin looked at Julie. "What?"

"Craps is a dice game," explained Kenny.

"Oh. Well, you're certainly dressed appropriately," said Julie, trying to keep a straight face as she took in Colin's ensemble of tartan trousers and loud shirt, printed with dice, cards and roulette wheels. "You'll definitely blend in with the crap."

"That's what I thought!" Colin said happily. "And the cap, what do you think of the cap?" He affixed a plastic green visor to his head. "Kenny, I couldn't get you one but I did get you these . . ." he handed over a pair of sunglasses. "It's in the desert, you know. Have to be prepared."

Kenny gingerly slid the oversized Elvis-style gold sunglasses on his face.

"Well?" Colin asked Julie, slinging his arm around Kenny. "What do you think? Couple of crazy carefree guys off for a lad's weekend in Sin City, eh?"

Julie had been overtaken by a coughing fit and couldn't answer.

"Sorry, guys," she managed to wheeze out. "Still getting over this flu . . . I'll have to . . ."

She made her escape quickly. Colin, undaunted, handed Kenny a piece of paper.

"What's this?" Kenny asked.

"Your boarding pass. I checked us in online so we can sit together! All the way to the USA! Viva Las Vegas, baby!"

"Fantastic," Kenny replied weakly.

Kenny's intercom buzzed. "Kenny? The taxi's here."

"Fantastic," Kenny repeated.

"Let me get that for you," Colin said cheerfully, popping the handle up on Kenny's case and wheeling it out of the door. Kenny's feeble protests went unheard and he sighed as he gathered up his travel documents.

"Fantastic."


	30. Chapter 30

They were pulled over at a truck stop just outside of Barstow. Neither of them could remember how the argument started which wasn't unusual, but that made it no less heated. Other people came and went, deliberately not looking at the couple remonstrating beside the black SUV, as they scurried inside for their super-sized sodas and other travel snacks.

As the female began marching back towards the diner, the male shouted after her.

"Because the thing is, Lynda Day - and this may come as a rude shock - you need me!"

Lynda turned abruptly.

"What?!"

A lesser man would have turned to jelly or stone or dust with the look she gave but Spike had years of practice and carried on without missing a beat.

"You need me! And don't pretend it's not true. You think you're so independent and you're so strong and you can handle anything life throws at you - even death! Well, let me tell you something for nothing, it's not true!"

He counted off forcefully on his fingers. "You need someone to handle your phone, someone to handle your email, someone to handle your diary, someone to mop up the blood you spill after your interaction with people, someone to bail you out of the trouble you always get yourself into and most of all . . . someone to protect you from yourself!"

There was a rare stunned silence.

"Well, if I'm such a basket case," Lynda shouted back after regaining her voice, "why are you still hanging around?"

"Hanging around?" Spike scoffed. "You've got to be kidding! I could leave you here right now and you couldn't even go use a pay phone on your own! You know what you are, Lynda?"

He paused for maximum effect.

"You're helpless!"

Another stunned silence. Twice in two minutes? That's got to be a record, Spike thought. They stared each other down across the parking lot like gunslingers in the Old West. Only this wasn't high noon and luckily, Lynda didn't have access to firearms.

She eventually regained her voice and managed to inject a suitable amount of scorn into the tone. "Helpless? I'll show you helpless." She stalked angrily towards the pay phone on the outside wall and yanked the receiver up to her ear. Spike folded his arms and watched as she fed in a handful of coins and turned her back to him, apparently deep in conversation. After she replaced the receiver, she walked back to him with that infuriatingly triumphant look on her face, head held high.

"There's a taxi coming to pick me up and take me back to LA," she announced, folding her arms. "I'll pack up the rest of my things, get myself to the airport and go home."

Spike said nothing, just walked over to the pay phone, picked up the receiver and hurled it towards the car park. Unhampered by the cord which had been cut long ago by some thoughtful former patron, it sailed gracefully through the air before smashing spectacularly onto the bitumen.

Undaunted, Lynda pulled open the back door of the car. Hauling out her suitcase, she headed towards the freeway where she dumped the case beside her, shook out her hair, lifted her chin and stuck out her thumb.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Spike yelled, running over and pulling her outstretched thumb down. "One; hitchhiking is illegal and there is a state trooper patrol car parked right over there looking out for people just like you. Two; it's a great way to get yourself abducted, interfered with and left out in the desert to die. And three;" he sighed heavily and gently rotated her wrist. "LA is that way."

Lynda looked down at her hand, still held in Spike's and abruptly jerked it away.

Heaving up her suitcase, she lugged it back to the car, opened the rear door and hefted it back inside before going to the passenger side and getting in.

Spike raised his eyes heavenwards and exhaled deeply. It was a good five minutes before he followed her and got into the driver's side.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Waiting for you."

"To do what?"

"Well, are we going to Las Vegas or not?"

Spike rubbed his face wearily. "Lynda, I can't deal with this."

"With what? Spike, it was a minor disagreement. Get over it."

"It was not just a 'minor disagreement' and you know it."

"It was!"

"You're doing it again!" Spike yelled in frustration. He sighed again and then spoke calmly. "Look, I'm sorry. I really am. But this behaviour - it's psychotic. I can't deal with the mood swings, the screaming matches. Arguments, yeah. Fights, no. I know I have a temper and I'm just as quick to start with the shouting but this is just too much."

"What are you saying?" Lynda looked stricken. "Don't you want to marry me?"

"I do," Spike replied heavily. "Pun intended. But there has to be some sort of . . . we need help. Real help. Like a counsellor or something."

"You're suggesting we get marriage guidance before we're even married?"

"I guess I am."

Lynda stared through the windshield and chewed her lip thoughtfully. Finally, she shrugged.

"If that's what it takes."

"If that's what it takes?" Spike echoed. "What, you're humouring me now?"

"No," said Lynda quietly. "I know we need it. I know I need it. Spare me the embarrassment of having to admit I need help."

"So you agree?" Spike just had to confirm he was hearing correctly. "You agree to therapy or counselling or whatever they call it now?"

"One condition though," said Lynda firmly, "The counsellor has to be British. Back home. None of this American touchy-feely crap, okay?"

"Deal." Spike held out his hand and Lynda shook it with her customary firm grip.

"Deal," she said. "Now, let's get moving. We've got a Vegas wedding to prepare for."

"What?!" Spike spluttered, totally wrong-footed. "How - I mean . . . I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, it's perfect for us, isn't it? We get married in Vegas. No waiting periods, no citizenship requirements. No meringue dress or kitchen tea. No mess, no fuss."

"You make it sound like a cleaning commercial," moaned Spike. "How romantic."

"Since when have we ever been romantic?" Lynda asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah," Spike conceded with a shrug and a smile. "As it happens, I picked up some information . . ." He reached into the back and pulled out the printed pages from the chapel of the MGM Grand.

Lynda scanned it. "This looks okay. Quite tasteful, really. I was anticipating drive-throughs, fake white pillars and fat Elvi."

"Elvi?" Spike repeated.

"Plural of Elvis."

"Lynda, you made a joke!"

"I wish you'd stop acting surprised when I do that." Lynda looked hurt. "I make jokes all the time."

"Hey, that was another one!"

Lynda rolled her eyes.

"Just drive, idiot, before I change my mind. About everything."

"You can't. You shook on it." Spike pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the interstate. "Are you, or are you not, a woman of honour?"

Lynda grinned wickedly. "We'll see about that when we check into our hotel room. I've only got a short while left as an unmarried woman. Better make the most of it."

Spike accelerated. Rapidly.


	31. Chapter 31

Kenny was savouring the peaceful sensation and soothing sound of no Colin.

Sinking into the enormous king-sized bed in his room at the Luxor casino and hotel, he gave fervent thanks for Colin's inherent tightness. Dismissing the suggestion that they could walk to their hotels from the airport, Kenny had sprung for a taxi to his hotel shaped like a Great Pyramid, whereupon Colin bounded out, apologised for not having any US dollars smaller than a "Benjamin" to fix him up with, proclaimed the large replica Sphinx "a classic masterpiece oozing with wow-ness" and set off down the Strip towards the "budget accommodation for fun-loving singles" he had booked online, visor cocked at a jaunty angle.

It had now been quite some hours since they had parted ways and Kenny intended for there to be quite some hours yet before they met up again. He mooched around his suite, had a long and luxurious shower, felt guilty about wasting water, unpacked his suitcase and arranged his clothes neatly by colour and fabric in the drawers before lining up his toiletries according to height in the bathroom.

The room's phone rang.

"Hello, Kenny Phillips." Please don't be Colin. Please don't be Colin. Please be Inland Revenue ready to take my thumbs for suspected tax evasion rather than Colin.

"Hey, Kenny!" An American accent put him immediately at ease. "Welcome to the States! Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, Spike. Nice place you have here. Had it long?"

"Got it from my father," replied Spike cheerfully. "Good flight?"

"That depends on your definition of good. If you define it as being stuck in the window seat next to an attention deficit, over-caffeinated, culturally insensitive and relentlessly talkative seatmate from hell, then yes - it was a good flight."

Spike chuckled. "So Colin made it then?"

"Just," confirmed Kenny. "Slight hold-up at Heathrow with various 'samples' of CM Enterprises merchandise being seized for further inspection and the unfortunate incident in the duty-free shop which involved at least three airport security guards, police and representatives from MI5 before they were convinced it was just a "slight misunderstanding" . . . he does a good confused foreign accent, you know, quite handy."

"I remember," Spike grinned to himself. "Tell me he didn't try the Nabil Hafiz angle again. Airports these days are a bit sensitive about comedy Arabs."

Kenny laughed. "No, it was more Belgian by way of Johannesburg with the occasional Estuary twang. Anyway, we're here now. How's the wedding coming along?"

"Actually, there's been a slight change of plans . . ."

"What kind of weapon is she holding to your throat right now?"

"No, no. Wedding's still on. But Lynda knows about it. Actually, she thinks it was her idea. Long story, don't ask. But she doesn't know about you guys being here so we've just got to make sure she doesn't see anyone before tomorrow morning."

"No problem, I'll lay low in my room. But Spike . . . you do remember Colin's here, don't you?"

"Yeah - why?"

"I'm asking myself the same thing," replied Kenny, wryly. "He's out there now, somewhere on the Strip dressed as conspicuously as possible and probably trying to pass himself off as the Queen's Ambassador to Las Vegas while simultaneously handing out multiple business cards for his various ventures. I think I even remember him talking about 'scoping possible real estate for CM Enterprises USA."

Spike laughed. "Thanks for the warning! I'll keep Lynda off the gaming floors and out of the girlie shows."

"Any word on the other special guests?"

"Negative," replied Spike. "I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

Kenny detected a note of disappointment.

"Don't worry. I'm sure they'll come. Do you want me to call you if I see them?"

"Better not, Lynda will wonder why I'm - Okay, Uncle. Yeah, we will. Thanks, bye."

Spike folded his cell phone shut and smiled at Lynda as she came out of their MGM Grand suite. "Got everything now?"

"I think so," Lynda frowned, checking through her documents. "Do we have to go to the marriage bureau now? Can't we go have a look at the casino bit?"

"We saw it on the way in. And besides, I thought you said it was just a bunch of fruit machines?" asked Spike casually.

"What's the matter? Scared I'll win another Kermit?"

Spike snorted. "If stuffed toys is the highest pinnacle of success you're aiming for, I'll take you to Circus Circus."

"Don't be silly. I don't want to go to the circus, I just want to have a look downstairs and maybe press a few buttons. Come on."

Spike followed her into the lift calculating that the odds of spotting one person in the hordes of Vegas visitors in one casino out of the hundreds of possible entertainment venues was low enough to risk a brief visit to the gaming floor. Even if that person was Colin Mathews.

They entered the main casino area, noisy with slots and thronging with people. Lynda plopped onto a stool at a machine and prodded a button experimentally.

"Okay, what do I do?"

Spike slid a five dollar note into the machine. "Right, press these buttons to increase your bet, press these ones here to increase the number of lines you're betting, this one - "

Before he could finish, Lynda yanked on the handle at the side of the machine and set the wheels spinning.

"Or you could pull the handle," said Spike, watching as the symbols stopped and a small tune played.

"Ooh! Did I win?"

"Yep," said Spike. "Fifty cents. Way to go."

"Good start anyway," said Lynda, pulling on the handle again. "Go baby!"

"Lynda, did you just say 'Go baby'?"

"I think I did!" she replied. "How vulgar." The barrels rolled and showed scattered symbols. "Huh, nothing." She gave the handle another yank. "Are you going to just stand there watching? Why don't you play?"

Spike shrugged. "Slots aren't my thing. I like the tables." Actually, he preferred to keep his eyes on the crowd so if he spotted a pair of flexible eyebrows over a loud shirt, he could whisk Lynda out before being detected. He scanned the throng of people, making sure he gave special scrutiny to the scantily-clad cocktail waitresses before Lynda wacked him suddenly in the stomach.

"Oof! Hey come on, I wasn't even looking at her!"

"What? No, look! I won!" Lynda pointed with glee at the three cherry symbols lined up across the machine.

"Hey, so you did!" Spike rubbed his stomach. "Nice work, Lady Luck."

"Never mind luck. How do I get my money?" demanded Lynda.

"Just press this button to pay out."

Lynda did so and hovered eagerly by the coin deposit with her hands out. Instead, a piece of paper printed itself out of the top of the machine.

"What the hell is this? Where's my money?"

"This is it," said Spike, pulling out the ticket. "You go and put it into one of those machines over there and get your money."

"No shower of coins?" asked Lynda disappointedly.

"Afraid not," said Spike. "Technology, you know."

"Huh," Lynda took the ticket and looked at it. "Two hundred and fifteen dollars. What's that in pounds?"

"Just over a hundred," replied Spike as they went and cashed in.

"Not bad, I suppose," Lynda said grudgingly.

Meanwhile, at the Luxor, Kenny was swathed in a fluffy hotel robe, engrossed in a blockbuster film and awaiting his dinner via room service. The knock came at the door, and without taking his eyes off the screen, he swung it open.

"Just on the table would be great, thanks," he said.

"Errr."

Kenny tore himself away from the action. "Colin?!"

"Kenny! Old chum, buddy, pal! How are you enjoying La Vida Vegas, then?"

"Just fine," replied Kenny, his jaw immediately going into spasms. "What do you want, Colin?"

"Want? Why should I want anything but to hang out with my old mate, Kenny?"

"Colin . . ."

"I mean, a guy doesn't have to have a reason, does he?"

"What's behind your back?"

"Hmm?"

"What have you got behind your back?"

"Nothing!"

"Colin . . ."

"Oh, this!" Colin swung his sports bag out from behind his back. "It's just my bag!"

"And why do you have it with you?"

Colin sensed defeat and hung his head. "I'm having a temporary accommodation crisis."

"Meaning?"

"I can't get into my room."

"Well, can't you ask reception for a new key?"

"I have the key. I can't get in to my room."

Kenny was beginning to lose a tiny amount of patience. Which for Kenny was akin to most people losing their heads. "So ask reception to ask maintenance to fix it!"

"I can't get in . . ." continued Colin " . . . because my room has been taped off by the police and there are two bodies in it that are no longer living. Looks like a deal gone bad. Nothing to do with me!" he added hastily, clocking Kenny's expression, "Bit of a mix-up with the rooms, I think."

"Right," said Kenny.

"And, I errr . . . well, what with the hairdresser's expo in town and me being on a limited budget . . ."

"I see," said Kenny.

"I was hoping . . ."

"Okay," said Kenny, holding the door open, resolutely.

"Thanks, Kenny! You're a pal!" Colin beamed and entered the suite whistling merrily.

"Look, there's only one bed . . ."

"Don't worry about me!" said Colin, brightly. "This carpet's lovely and thick, I'll be fine on the floor. I don't even need a pillow, I'll just use my bag!"

"You can have a pillow," sighed Kenny, fetching the spares from the cupboard. "And here's a blanket."

"Fab!" Colin parked himself at the end of the bed and noticed the movie playing. "Ooh, this is a good one! You won't believe the end. It turns out the main guy is bad and working for the agency trying to kill the woman!"

"Thanks. You've saved me having to watch it," muttered Kenny. "Look, I think I might turn in now, if it's alright with you."

"Absolutely! No problem!" Colin arranged his blanket and pillow on the floor and Kenny snapped off the lights. It wasn't long before he heard shuffling and muffled sighs that got progressively louder.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No, it's fine!" came Colin's reply. "It's just that old bullet wound I took during the gun seige. It plays up when I don't sleep on a mattress. But it's okay!"

Kenny said several very bad words under his breath, then finally, between gritted teeth;

"Youcansleepinthebedjustkeeponyoursideanddon'tmoveaninch!"

"Kenny, you're a gem," Colin bounded up and hopped into the bed. "I promise I won't hog the blankets!"

He wriggled around for a few minutes getting comfortable. Then, as his breathing grew more regular, the twitching started.

Kenny stared into the darkness.

"Kenny? Do you mind keeping the teeth grinding down a bit? Trying to get to sleep now. Big day tomorrow, you know."


	32. Chapter 32

"Lynda."

"Mmmfff."

"Time to get up, dear."

"But Mum . . . it's Saturday . . . isn't it?"

"Yes but today's the big day, love."

"Mmmm."

"Come on, Lynda." Sterner now.

"But Mum!"

"But nothing. Up you get."

Lynda made as if to bury herself further into the bed before her brain brought something urgent to her attention. She hadn't lived at home for three years and not only that, she wasn't even supposed to be in the same country as her mother, let alone the same room. She sat bolt upright in the bed and snapped on the bedside lamp.

'"Mum!"

"Surprise!" Marion Day beamed as her daughter gaped at her. Lynda fought the impulse to rub her eyes in disbelief.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, that's not a very nice way to greet your mother after she's come all this way," tutted Marion. "Now, come on, out of bed, please. I never used to have to tell you twice" She held up a dressing gown. Lynda obeyed in a daze and held out her arms as her mother wrapped the gown around her.

"What are you doing here?" Lynda repeated after she was really sure she wasn't dreaming. "Where's Spike?"

"It's bad luck to see each other before the wedding," Marion said. "So he's off getting organised in my room while you and I have breakfast together. I'm surprised I didn't wake you coming in with all this." She gestured to the table which was indeed set for breakfast. "You haven't slept so soundly for years. Holidays must agree with you."

Lynda squinted as her mum opened the curtains, flooding the room with bright Nevada sunshine.

"But . . . you're staying here? How did you know?"

"Spike, of course." Marion began pouring out coffee.

"And you came in a day?" Lynda sat down at the table and picked a strawberry off the fruit platter.

"Don't be silly, I've known for a week. Here you are." She handed Lynda a cup of coffee.

"But how could you, when we only . . ." Realisation dawned mid-sip and she almost choked. "I'll kill him!"

"Now, don't go getting yourself worked up at him," said Marion, firmly. "I have to admit, I was furious at first but then . . . well, it was explained to me very patiently and I realised after a while, it was for the best. After all, I've had my wedding and this is yours. And besides I'm having a lovely holiday!"

"Well, you've changed your tune," said Lynda in surprise. "I've been telling you for months I didn't want any fuss."

"No fuss," agreed Marion. "Now, have some of these waffles before they go cold."

"Mmm," Lynda dug in. "Actually, I'm glad you're here, Mum. Do you think you could help me with my hair?"

Marion beamed. "Darling, I'd love to."

"Nothing too crazy," said Lynda warningly. "Just . . . nice."

"We can do nice," said Marion. "And . . . what were you thinking of wearing?"

Lynda shrugged. "I've got this dress thing . . ." She chewed for a moment. "Not very weddingy though."

"Did you want to wear a wedding dress?" Marion asked casually. Lynda shrugged again.

"I could have hired one here, but it seemed so . . . tacky. And god knows what the previous wearer did in it."

Marion took a deep breath. "Well, it so happens - and you don't have to if you don't want to . . ."

"What, Mum?"

Marion hurried over to the closet and took out a garment bag. "I thought I'd bring it over, just in case . . ." She unzipped it.

"Mum! Your wedding dress!"

"Like I said, you don't have to . . . you'll probably think it's terribly old-fashioned . . . I'd understand . . . " Marion extracted the gown from the bag and laid it out on the bed.

"It's beautiful! I'd forgotten . . ." Lynda touched the simple silk dress.

"You used to play dress-ups in it when you were a little girl," said Marion fondly.

"I remember," said Lynda. "I was the princess and I'd make Kenny come and rescue me from the top of the stairs. I'd set traps and everything to test his worthiness."

"That's right!" said Marion. "It's a wonder the poor child didn't break his neck. Especially that one with the biscuit tin."

"He had a safety harness!" protested Lynda.

"What, the cord from my old dressing gown?"

"Better than nothing," said Lynda. "Anyway, do you think the dress will fit?"

"Absolutely. And if not, I've come armed with pins, needles and double-sided hemming tape!" Marion upzipped a small sewing kit bristling with all manner of dressmaking accessories. "Go and try it on and we'll see if anything needs to be done."

Lynda obeyed. She returned from the bathroom to find her mother's eyes brimming over.

"Is it that bad?" She patted the dress self-consciously. "I couldn't really tell . . ."

"No, it's beautiful, dear. You look lovely."

"Taller?" Lynda asked.

"Taller," her mother confirmed.

Lynda poked her new high heels out from under the dress. "Well, there's my something new. Something old is the dress and I have blue ribbon on my . . . anyway, that's covered. Can I borrow something from you? We might as well go the whole hog if I'm to go semi-traditional."

"How about these?" Marion held out a small velvet-covered jewellery box for Lynda to open.

"Your good earrings! Mum, thanks!"

"My pleasure, dear," Marion said happily, as Lynda fastened them to her ears and surveyed herself in the mirror.

"I don't look too overdone, do I?"

"Not all," Marion replied. "Perfectly elegant."

The finishing touches were put on with only a minor squabble about the amount of make-up required and the height of the hair.

"Beautiful," said Marion at last, posing Lynda in a chair and snapping some photos.

"Shall we go then?"

"No rush," said Marion, breezily. "Besides, the bride is supposed to be late."

"Not this one," replied Lynda, looking at her watch. "You know how I feel about punctuality."

A knock came at the door.

"Speaking of punctuality," said Marion, checking her own watch, "here's your escort. Right on time."

"Oh god," said Lynda, her face a picture of dread. "It's not Elvis, is it?"

"Why don't you open the door and find out?"

"It had better not be Elvis," said Lynda, hiking up her dress and striding towards the door. "No matter how cool Spike thinks it will be, I'm not walking down the aisle with Elvis."

She swung open the door to reveal not Elvis, but a tall man in a military uniform.

"Dad?!"


	33. Chapter 33

Spike was waiting in the groom's dressing room at the smaller of the two chapels the MGM Grand featured. Slouching in an ivory tub chair in his good suit, he practiced portraying his usual air of cool indifference in the mirror but his jiggling right leg and slightly tremulous hands belied his real state of emotion. He fought the impulse to slide his cuff back and check his watch again. Not only because he knew he had only checked less than a minute ago but also because the watch was a gift from Lynda and the thought of his bride-to-be set the butterflies in his stomach off on a new flight path.

"Spike!" Kenny arrived and the pair shook hands and hugged in that traditionally awkward male way. "How's the impending groom?"

"Would you believe me if I did one of my stock lines about how cool I am?" Spike asked, wryly.

"No," replied Kenny, cheerfully.

"Okay, great. I'll save my breath," said Spike. "Speaking of which, you got any mints or anything? I got a bad taste in my mouth."

"Jitters?"

"More like the cheeseburger I had for breakfast," replied Spike. "When in Vegas . . ."

"Well, luckily this is me you're talking to," said Kenny and fished in his pockets. "Tic Tacs or Mentos?"

"Gimme a Mentos," replied Spike, taking the roll from Kenny and flicking out a couple of the chewy white mints before handing it back. "I used to keep my baby teeth in an old Tic Tacs box and needless to say, there was an Unfortunate Incident."

Kenny grimaced and looked at the box in his hand with distaste. "I'm not sure I want these now."

"I got another couple of boxes I wonder if you'd mind holding for me," said Spike, taking them out of his pocket. "As uh . . . you know, best man or something."

Kenny beamed. "Spike! It's an honour." He took the boxes and opened one. A white gold wedding ring was tucked inside.

"I figure you're Lynda's best man as well so you'd be up there for both of us," Spike said, gruffly. "I mean, if it weren't for you blowing up and getting her to take me to Campbell's cocktail party . . ."

Kenny laughed. "You should thank BT then as well. But you would have got it together eventually, I'm sure."

"I dunno," Spike said. "The fact that it came from you . . . it gave her that extra push." He looked inside the ring box. "That's mine, by the way."

"Noted," Kenny put that box in his right pocket and the other in his left. "Left pocket, L for Lynda. Easy." and checked his own watch. "Nearly time. Are you . . ."

Colin bounded in, looking remarkably well-dressed in a dark suit with thick pinstripes. "Hi guys! Nice day for a white wedding, eh? How's tricks, Spike? Are you raring and ready to go, all refreshed and well rested?" He clapped Spike heartily on the back.

"Uh, yeah," replied Spike, cautiously. "Is this a pitch of some kind?"

"What? No! Can't a guy enquire after another guy's health before he's about to take the BIGGEST STEP OF HIS LIFE!" Colin looked at Kenny with a "Can you believe this guy?" expression on his face. "Ooh, Tic Tacs. Don't mind if I do."

"Have them all," replied Kenny at once, pressing the box into Colin's hand.

"Is this kid generous or what?" Colin asked Spike, tipping a couple of Tic Tacs into his hand and then throwing them into his mouth. "First his bed, now his Tic Tacs. What a guy, eh?" He crunched noisily on the hard candies.

Spike looked at Kenny questioningly.

"Don't ask," Kenny muttered darkly. "Colin -"

"I've brought the flowers for your buttonholes," said Colin, producing some small flowers from a carry bag. "Allow me."

Spike and Kenny didn't know what to be more shocked at - Colin thinking of buttonholes or the fact that said buttonhole arrangements were remarkably tasteful.

"Colin, that's really thoughtful," said Spike after Colin had threaded the flowers through each of the holes on their lapels and affixed them with a pearl-tipped dressmaking pin. "Thanks."

"Not at all!" replied Colin merrily. "I mean, what's a best man for?"

Spike and Kenny exchanged glances.

"Ah well, actually, Colin . . ."

A chapel attendant stuck her head into the room. "Excuse me. Mr Thomson? We're ready for you now. If you and your groomsmen would like to follow me?"

Colin led the way, whistling "Get Me To The Church On Time."

The chapel attendant began positioning them at the front of the chapel. "Now, who's the best man?"

"That's me," said Colin, proudly before Spike could interject. "We go way back, this crazy kid and me. And not just in a business sense either. We've grown into . . . "

"If you'll stand here . . ." she interrupted, shuffling him to Spike's right and then looked to Kenny. "And sir, if you'll just . . ."

"He's the bride's best man," said Spike firmly. "Is that okay?"

The attendant laughed. "Mr Thomson, this is Vegas. Yesterday we had a Best Dog for the groom and the bridal party after yours will be in sumo suits. Believe me, this is what we call normal!" She arranged Kenny on the left side of the aisle. "Now, the bride has just arrived so . . ."

"She has?" Spike couldn't keep the shock out of his voice.

"You sound surprised!" she said with a smile.

"I kinda am!"

"Ah, here's the minister," said the attendant as a bearded gentleman in black entered. "I'll just go ahead and let the bridal party know we're ready."

She hurried up the aisle and slipped out of a side door.

"Colin? Here's Spike's ring for Lynda," said Kenny, handing over the box.

"Thanks, Kenny!" Colin accepted the box and began absently tossing it from hand to hand.

"If you in any way fumble or drop it," continued Kenny in the same pleasant voice, "Or if you disrupt the ceremony in any other way, I will kill you. Understood?"

Spike and Colin both gaped for a second before Colin nodded dumbly and slipped the ring box into his jacket pocket.

At that point, some light piano music began playing and Spike heard the doors opening behind them.

"All rise in honour of our bride," said the minister to the chapel - even though everyone in it was already standing.

Marion walked down the aisle first, dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief and took a seat in the pew at the front.

"You can turn around now," murmured the minister to Spike.

"I wasn't willing to risk any bad luck," explained Spike before turning.

His bride was walking slowly down the aisle on the arm of her father. Both had bright shiny eyes and nervous smiles. Spike's mouth went dry. He'd seen her looking good before. He'd also seen her looking imperious, impatient, tired, angry, furious, pleased, smug and hungry. But this was the first time he'd seen her looking so . . . radiant.

They reached him after what seemed like an age and Spike shook her father's hand.

"It's good to meet you, sir," he said.

"And you," Michael Day replied with a wry smile. "Good luck."

Spike turned to Lynda, his throat tight. Although his first impulse was to say something flippant like "Hey, you made it!", he wisely chose a wobbly "You're beautiful."

Lynda also fought against her first impulse which was to say something flippant like "Dry up, Thomson!" Instead, she went with a simple "Thank you."

"Are we ready?" the minister asked, smiling at them both.

In unison, Spike and Lynda replied, "As we'll ever be."

"We are gathered here today to witness the coming together in marriage of James Robert Thomson and Lynda Louise Rosemary Day."

Colin's eyes widened. "Rosemary?" he mouthed at Kenny.

Kenny subtly clenched his fists in warning and Colin affixed his eyes back to the front.

Remarkably, the short ceremony continued without incident. Colin managed to hand over the ring at the appropriate time without fumbling, Marion kept her sniffles to a minimum and the I Dos were said without the hint of a smirk or sarcasm.

"By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada," boomed the minister, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride!"

Spike obeyed and the small gathering cheered and clapped.

"Now, Lynda," he said, pointing before she could be distracted, "wave to everyone back home."

"What?" Lynda followed his arm and saw a small black webcam mounted on the wall at the rear of the chapel. "You mean everyone's sat back there watching this?"

"Yup!"

"Can I give them a message?" Lynda asked the minister.

"Of course," said the minister. "Also, there is the small matter of the minister's donation . . ."

Lynda left Spike to sort out the finances while she approached the camera.

"Hello everyone," she said. "Thank you for being part of our wedding. Now stop slacking and get back to work!"

"Lynda!" gasped her mother.

"Oh come on," said Lynda. "I was joking. They would have expected that." She turned back to the camera. "But another ten minutes only and then back to it, yeah?"

"Spike, do something about the missus!" jested Kenny.

Lynda turned around. "And you! You knew all about this too?"

"Guilty," replied Kenny. "As usual." He shrank ever so slightly away as Lynda walked over to him.

"What are you looking so scared about?" she asked. "I'm hardly going to stab you with my hairpins. Can't a girl get a hug from her maid of honour?"

"I think we were going with bride's best man actually," Kenny replied, hugging her.

After, Lynda turned again. "And . . . Colin!"

Colin beamed and held his arms out in preparation for his hug. Lynda hesitated briefly.

"Oh, what the hell!"


	34. Chapter 34

The post-nuptial dissection was held in a small, intimate Art Deco-style eaterie called Studio Cafe which was tucked neatly within the MGM Grand complex

The post-nuptial dissection was held in a small, intimate Art Deco-style eaterie called Studio Cafe which was tucked neatly within the MGM Grand complex.

"I just can't believe you're all here," Lynda said for the fifth time, looking around the table. "How did you pull this off, Thomson?"

"Lots of late night emails and phone calls," admitted Spike. "And a bit of help from my British correspondent, of course."

Kenny gave a little bow of the head. "By the way, Sarah sends her love and apologies."

"Sarah's apologising again? She never could kick that filthy habit," quipped Spike.

"She's in the middle of exams," Kenny continued. "But she'll definitely be at the party."

"Party?" Lynda asked.

"I thought a little get-together might be nice when we get back," said Spike casually. "Nothing too formal."

All eyes were on Lynda, waiting for a reaction.

"As long as Sophie and Laura aren't in charge of the catering, I think I can handle that," she said. "Speaking of whom, Kenny - have you been doing those inspections as I asked? Is my flat still in habitable condition by humans?"

"I did happen to drop in there unannounced the day before I left," replied Kenny, "And I can confirm that there wasn't a thing out of place as far as I could see. And, as I took the liberty of poking through cupboards and looking under the sofa, that's quite a lot. They even had fresh milk for tea and cakes, which is better than I get when you're home, Lynda."

"Dear, you should always have something on hand for guests!" said Marion. "It doesn't take much to whip up a batch of scones."

"I have a 24 hour convenience store just around the corner. They can run down for a jam roll if it's that urgent."

"They had vegetables in the fridge too," supplied Kenny. "Edible, identifiable ones. And flowers on the table."

Lynda rolled her eyes. "Well, I've got a head cook and bottlewasher installed now, I expect there may be a few changes."

"Quite a few," agreed Spike. "No more of that pulped newsprint you call instant mashed potato. And I'm American, so you know I love my convenience foods, but that stuff is just wrong. It tastes like you've added milk and butter to the shredding bin at work and set it to 'Blend'."

"Spike's a wonderful cook," Marion told Michael proudly. "And he does his own washing."

"I'm fully house-broken as well," said Spike with an equal tone of pride in his voice.

"It's certainly good to meet you at last," said Michael. "I've been hearing about Spike this and Spike that since Lynda was sixteen."

"Dad!"

"Well, it's true, love," her father replied. "I've still got all the letters, and then when I'd come home on visits, I'd hear all about it . . . I think I've still got the furiously scribbled note where you've asked me if I could organise for one of our bombers to fly over and accidentally mistake Benton Ford for a terrorist training camp."

"Close enough," snorted Lynda, in cruel reference to one of Norbridge's less salubrious housing estates where Spike and his father had lived when they first arrived in the UK.

"Then there was how you could pay for a sniper or - at the very least - poison gas out of petty cash."

"DAD!!"

Michael winked at Spike. "I knew something was up when she stopped referring to you as 'the knuckle-dragging imbecile sent from Hades to inflict torment upon me' and changed to 'That insufferable American'. "

"That's her pet name for me," said Spike, looking at Lynda fondly. Before she could respond, Colin tapped his glass with a knife.

"Errr, I wonder if I could present the happy couple with their wedding gift?"

"Ooh, presents!" Lynda clapped her hands. Spike looked at Kenny for clues, but Kenny shrugged. Colin handed over a rectangular package wrapped in silver paper which Lynda tore off eagerly.

"The Norbridge Files?" Lynda looked at the bound document, puzzled. "What the hell is this?"

"Keep reading!" Colin grinned excitedly. Lynda did so.

" 'Famous journalist Marc Karr arrives from Fleet Street as editor of local newspaper, The Herald. Along with deputy headmaster Will Mulligan, they start up a junior version of the paper, _The Junior Herald_, to be produced by "volunteer" pupils from the local high school before and after school hours. Some of the volunteers are over-achievers who need a challenge, others are trouble-makers and deliquents. One such bad boy, Mike Johnson, is forced to work on the paper rather than being expelled from school after an incident at the school dance. He is immediately attracted to no-nonsense editor Lisa May, but sparks fly . . . ' Colin, what is this?"

"Are you writing a book, Colin?" Marion asked, kindly.

"Better," said Colin, all but wriggling with excitement. "It's a treatment for a television series. I laid the groundwork after the whole Crazy Stuff incident as I told you at the time . . ."

"You what?" asked Lynda and Spike in deadly unison.

"But I've only just managed to find a decent writer and backers at Central Television," continued Colin. "They love it! They're really pumped about it. They're talking budgets already. Two million pounds! Can you imagine?"

"Can I see, love?" Michael took the treatment from Lynda's clenched hands and flicked through it.

" 'Pilot episode, Page One'," he read.

"Clever, eh?" asked Colin, proudly.

"Let's see . . . enter Lisa: 'Benny, cut the page 2 buses and get more pollution from Sally. And can we get something done about the sign outside? I don't think 'Trespassers Will Be Exterminated' is really the image we're trying to project here!' And then Benny says . . ."

"What utter nonsense!" said Lynda. "As if I'd have a problem with a sign saying that!"

"Well, creative licence and all that," said Colin, breezily.

Lynda exhaled and turned to Kenny. "Please advise how you would handle this situation as I'm betting it doesn't end in fatalities. Which is the only solution I'm coming up with on my own."

"Well," said Kenny thoughtfully. "Actually, I think it could be really good for the business."

"What?" Spike and Lynda chorused together.

"Really," said Kenny. "And let's face it, having a TV show about your life, how good is that!"

Spike seemed to brighten.

"Is my character cool? I mean, really iconically cool?"

Michael read from the character synoposis. "Mike Thomson is an American delinquent, forced to work on the paper rather than being expelled from school. His trademark is a leather jacket and an ever-present pair of sunglasses. He is immediately attracted to Lisa, and he establishes himself as an important member of the reporting team having been responsible for getting their first lead story . . .' Was that the disco one?"

"Yes, the one that nearly cost us the paper before it started!" interjected Lynda.

Colin played his trump card. "I've negotiated for exclusive backstage access for both The Phoenix and the Junior Gazette. We'll get to report on the filming, the sets, the real stories, the actors . . . we've got a say on future storylines . . . we might be able to negotiate work experience . . . they're even thinking about letting the JG kids be extras in the school and newsroom scenes."

"Did you know about this?" Lynda wheeled back around to Kenny who held his hands up defensively.

"Don't shoot, Boss! He told me he was writing a book."

"That's still on the cards, actually, once this project is underway," mused Colin. "But I'd like to add a few more strings to the CM Enterprises bow to pad out the last few chapters."

"Well! I think it's a lovely idea!" said Marion. "Just think, Lynda! All your hard work becoming a TV show to inspire other young people into journalism! I think it's fantastic. Well done, Colin."

"Thank you," said Colin politely.

"And errr . . . am I in the show?" Marion asked off-handedly.

"Oh, yes," said Colin. "It's a small role, only a couple of episodes at this stage, but important."

Marion looked thrilled. "This is the most exciting day of my life!"

"Nothing to do with your only child getting married then?" Lynda asked sarcastically.

"Don't be silly," said Marion briskly. "They are both very exciting. Oh, I can't wait to tell the girls at the book club!"

Lynda's brain meanwhile was ticking over.

"I want final approval on the scripts," she said, suddenly.

"I'll have the writer run the drafts past you and Spike," countered Colin, feeling the cool rush of The Zone envelop him as they entered negotiations.

"Put me on the books as creative consultant."

"I think I can manage that," replied Colin smoothly.

"I can write some of my best lines down," said Spike helpfully. "You can have them. Have you got the one about me being so cool, I could spit icecubes? Can I be wardrobe consultant for my character? And will I be played by a real American? That's very important. I don't want a drama school kid from North London doing some lame American accent he picked up from TV cop shows."

Lynda made a coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like "Diva!"

"What, you think you're the only one who can make demands around here?" Spike asked. Lynda's retort was cut off by Kenny, who had been reading.

"Hey, I get the second line of the pilot!" And you've given me some good lines!" he said, pleased. "I thought I'd be relegated to saying 'Yes, Lynda', 'No, Lynda' but look - I get a whole joke, right at the start."

Colin looked vaguely hurt. "Kenny, how could you think that? You're very important to the story. In fact, we've got a few good ideas for some real Kenny-centric or, should I say, Benny-centric episodes. I've told you before, you're a star, kid! After Mike and Lisa, Benny is probably the most important character."

Kenny's chuffed look was quickly replaced by a suspicious narrowing of eyes at Colin as a thought occurred to him.

"You haven't found anywhere to stay tonight, have you?"

"What?" Colin asked, wrong-footed and therefore looking naturally guilty.

"You were supposed to make alternative accommodation arrangements for tonight and you haven't, have you?"

"Ah. Well, actually, the thing about that, Kenny is . . ."

"I knew it!"

"Uh oh," murmurered Spike to Lynda. "Here comes Angry Kenny. Look out, Colin will be forced to date the waitress."

Kenny indeed was turning a brilliant shade of fuchsia but before he could explode, Colin continued.

"It's the funniest thing," Colin said. "I thought I'd try my luck on one of those giant slot machines they have outside the casinos to try and get you inside - great marketing too, I have to say - every player wins a prize and it's free. So I step up for my turn, spin the wheel and what do you know, it comes up with three bananas and I've won two nights in the Tropicana Tower penthouse suite. Fully comped and a meal at the buffet. How's that for luck?"

"I don't believe it," said Kenny. "You jammy little . . ."

"Your bill?" the waitress had appeared at an opportune time and placed a leatherbound folder on the table.

Both Michael and Kenny reached for it but were beaten by Colin, who was closer.

"I've got this," said Colin. Spike began choking in disbelief and Lynda thumped him swiftly on the back.

He examined the bill, made a swift mental calculation for the exact tip and then proceeded to peel notes from a fat roll in his pocket, ignoring the open-mouthed stares of his friend.

"Has someone got a camera?" Kenny asked faintly, as Colin handed the folder back to the waitress.

"Didn't I mention I had some luck at the craps?" Colin asked, casually. "I expect I forgot with all the excitement of the wedding!"

"Yes but . . . you're spending it!" Spike said. "Okay, Lynda, you can stop hitting me now."

"Sorry," said Lynda, dazed. "I guess I was just as shocked."

"Listen to you all! Anyone would think I never took care of a bill before!"

"Well, the thing is Colin, you haven't!" Kenny said, as gently as possible.

"Really?" Colin frowned. "What about that time with the ice-creams?"


	35. Chapter 35

Marion and Michael flew home the following day, and Kenny the day after.

Colin stayed on in Vegas for another week, having made "connections" while "networking" around various bars and gaming areas. When he finally left, he was laden with all manner of tacky tat from the world's biggest souvenir store including trick dice, marked cards, poker sets, pyramid snow globes and - oddly - poseable Jesus action figures with "realistic gliding action".

Spike and Lynda, meanwhile, embarked on a two week honeymoon, driving up to the Grand Canyon and staying in a cosy lodge metres from the North Rim (which would have been dangerous at other points in their relationship) before heading up to a lakeside chalet at Bass Lake, California (likewise) and finally San Francisco before heading back to Los Angeles.

Although the days were peppered with their usual bickering and minor disagreements about in-car entertainment, the heat had definitely mellowed.

Spike noticed the difference in his wife when she allowed him to row them about on Bass Lake without offering any instructions like, "You're doing it wrong."

Lynda noticed the difference in her husband when they toured Alcatraz and he didn't make any references to her finding possible employment there in a past life.

They had arrived back at the Santa Monica townhouse. Too tired to climb the stairs, they dumped their bags in the middle of the floor, kicked off their shoes and were relaxing on the balcony with glasses of wine late in the afternoon.

"It surprises me," said Lynda, after a long period of comfortable silence, "that nothing untoward happened during the ceremony."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, face it, Thomson - we've never really enjoyed smooth sailing. It just seems like it was all too easy. I half expected your mother to come bursting in, waving an injunction to stop proceedings."

"That thought crossed my mind as well," admitted Spike. "I even called her office in London to make sure she was there."

"What's she going to say, do you think?"

"Don't know, don't care," replied Spike, stretching lazily. "Too late for her to start showing an interest, as far as I'm concerned. She should just focus on her career, the way she always has. She should stick to what she's good at. Which is not mothering. Or wife . . . ing."

"She didn't change her name when she married your father, did she?" Lynda asked.

"Nope," Spike replied. "Said it was old-fashioned and sexist and would have a negative impact on her career. She was always a Ms too - never a Mrs. I think she thought people wouldn't be as intimidated by her if they knew she was married. Didn't even have a photo of me on her desk. Anything to keep that hardcore ball-busting image. I guess maybe she thought she had something to prove to the Americans when she first arrived and then it just got to be a habit. Why?"

Lynda was chewing her lip thoughtfully. "I was wondering what to do about my name."

"Oh yeah?" Spike forced a casual tone and decided not to mention he had presumed she would keep Day for the same reasons.

"I like Day," said Lynda, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. "It's short and to the point."

"Just like you," Spike couldn't resist.

"And I've had it all this time," Lynda continued after an indulgent eye-roll. "But I think . . . I think I'd like to show commitment to you. And to our marriage."

"Really?" Spike didn't do that good a job of hiding his surprise.

"Well, it's not like I'm fighting the patriarchy by keeping my father's name over yours," she said, smiling.

"Right," Spike feigned understanding.

"Do you think Day-Thomson sounds pretentious?" she asked.

Spike shrugged. "It's better than Fossington-Smythe-Hunter or some of those crazy names you English go in for."

"Mmmm," Lynda took a sip. "I'm not in love with it, myself."

"So what then? Amalgamations? We could be the Thomays or the Daysons . . . or anagrams, you're good at those . . ."

Lynda's quick brain mentally reshuffled the letters.

"Oh dear! I don't know about that unless you want to be known as Mr and Mrs Sodomy."

Spike blanched. "Maybe not such a good idea."

"How about just Thomson?" she said. "I mean, if we have kids, it really will be the easiest."

"I couldn't agree more . . . Mrs Thomson."

"I'll have to practice responding to that. And a new signature."

Whatever smart remark Spike was about to make about practicing was interrupted by the doorbell.

"Arrghhgh," he groaned as he hauled himself up out of the chair. "I bet that's AT and T or someone wanting me to switch my cable." He looked at his watch. "Five o'clock, they've got a nerve." The doorbell sounded again. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

He opened the door. A girl of about sixteen stood with her finger poised above the bell.

"Aha! Don't tell me. Girl Scout cookies," said Spike. "I'll take two boxes."

"I'm not selling anything," said the girl. "I'm looking for James Thomson."

"Oh. Well, you found him."

"He's here? Great, can I see him please?"

"I mean, you found him here. On the other side of this door," explained Spike. "I'm James Thomson."

The girl looked confused. "But you can't be."

"I'm pretty sure I am," replied Spike pleasantly. "At least, that's what it says on my birth certificate."

"No, I mean - you're not old enough."

"There's an age requirement to be called James Thomson?"

"Spike, don't be a prat," said Lynda, who had come in from the balcony. "Isn't it obvious? She's looking for your dad."

"Your dad?" The girl looked from one to the other.

"Yeah, James Thomson senior."

"James Thomson senior is your dad?" she repeated.

"Yeah," replied Spike. "Well, I should say, he was."

"Was?"

Spike and Lynda exchanged glances.

"Maybe you should come in and sit down," said Lynda as gently as possible.

"And who are you, anyway?" asked Spike.

The girl stuck out her hand. "I'm Abby Marshall. And if James Thomson senior is your father, then I'm your half-sister."

END

* * *

_Stay tuned for the next installment . . . "So Much For The Afterglow"_


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